


words like oil, tongue as a sword

by kapteeni



Series: had i wings like a dove, i would fly away (and be at rest) [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Meet the Family, POV Damen, Politics, Road Trips, Serious Injuries, Sexual Slavery, Slow Burn, Torture, Unhealthy Views on Sex, Universe Alteration, Villain Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapteeni/pseuds/kapteeni
Summary: Laurent, noted Veretian abolitionist with the libido and personality of hemlock, ignores his brother’s remonstrations and dresses as a Patran tableslave to infiltrate the high Akielon estates that litter the northeastern corner of Delpha, née Delfeur.Damianos, noted Akielon slave-owner and sexual savant, travels to Delpha on the orders of his father and disguises himself as a pleasure slave in order to track down the nefarious abolitionist group behind the mass exodus that’s rocking the royal court.{ft. Camping without tents of either kind: canvas nor innuendo, unabashed lies, folk songs, availability of soap decaying exponentially to its usefulness, a two way street in Marlas called obliviousness, urban legends, and exile: a political device used to get traitors back on their feet instead of off with their heads.}





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Captive Prince Big Bang
> 
> Hit up **[my tumblr](http://naniare.tumblr.com)** if you want more detailed warnings

“I just don’t think this is a good idea, my lord,” Nikandros said as Adrastus snapped the golden collar around Damen’s neck. 

Damen ignored his friend and turned to Lykaios, who was watching the proceedings with the wide doe eyes that had made Damen pick her from rows of blonde, pale-skinned slaves. “Do I look the part?” he asked. 

Lykaios didn’t seem to be able to bring herself to answer. She averted her eyes, wrung her hands in front of her, but Damen’s gaze was drawn less to her distress than her pert breasts, just visible under transparent gauze, though her dark nipples pressed invitingly through the fabric. He would miss Lykaios, he supposed, while he was away. And though there would be no shortage of slaves around, even some equal or surpassing her beauty, Damen would be in no position to enjoy their skills. 

It was Adrastus, the Keeper of the Royal Slaves, who answered instead. “You do, Your Highness. And if I may be so bold, I will say you would fetch a royal sum on the auction block.” 

“Hopefully it’s such a royal sum that he’s sold right back here,” Nikandros muttered. “Damianos, do you have any idea what would happen to me if your father found out I had let you sell yourself into slavery?” Damen was somewhat pleased to note that Nikandros seemed to have moved on from increasingly dire warnings of what could happen to Damen himself, which he had seen brushed off, to impassioned appeals on how this would affect those around him. Soon he would start outlining the fall of the kingdom. 

“He would first ascertain that I had fetched a good price,” Damen joked, but at his friend’s stricken look, he turned back to Adrastus, who had been fiddling with the exact way Damen’s loincloth draped around his hips. “Adrastus, there are meticulous records detailing the history of every slave, correct?” 

“Yes, your highness. I could trace the history of your slave-girl here back to where her great-grandmother was trained.” 

Damen looked back at Nikandros. “You see? If I haven’t returned in two weeks, you’ll be able to find my exact whereabouts. And then you can admonish me all you want.” He put a comforting hand on Nikandros’ shoulder. “Really, what’s the worst that can happen? I have some bad sex? It can’t be any worse than what I subjected my first slave to when I was fifteen.” He laughed. “I would have it coming.” 

Nikandros opened his mouth to protest, but Damen was already striding towards Lykaios and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. He tilted her chin up so he could gaze into her eyes, which he was shocked to find were red-rimmed with tears. He wiped them away with a gentle thumb and gave her a reassuring smile before he turned to the slave master. “Let’s go.” 

Four months ago, Jokaste had somehow gotten into her head the notion that Damen was becoming exhausted by his father’s increasing reliance, and had brought the concern around to Kastor, who had agreed. Damen was sure the both of them had his best interest at heart, and were back in Ios now, content in the knowledge that Damen was enjoying a stress-free vacation, and would come back revitalized, not only from the cool air that blew in from the mountains, but from the satisfaction that came with completing a concrete task. 

His father had sensed that Damen was frustrated with the endlessness of politics, with goals constantly forestalled or compromised, or series of inconsequential bureaucracy that, if he was lucky, would lead to some minor victory fifteen years hence. And he had agreed with Kastor and Jokaste’s suggestion, so he sent Damen to the four corners border of Delphi, which marked the intersection of the four great nations: Akielos, Patras, Vask, and Vere. There had been some minor trouble with fugitive slaves there, which had increased so significantly over the last year that many believed it was less a case of runaways than of theft. Rumors swirled of abolitionist networks, and due to the awkward positioning, no one knew who to blame. Patras could be hoping to improve its own stock with Akielon slaves; Veretians could be taking their longheld opposition to slavery to greater heights; the Vaskian clanswomen could be stealing them to sell to either country. 

But despite the increasingly incendiary rhetoric, the problem was still small enough that it seemed to be the work of a small group, instead of the concentrated effort of a liberating army some nobles were beginning to whisper about. Small enough that his father had thought it would be simple enough to send the crown prince to validate concerns the kyros had voiced about lack of attention from Ios, have Damianos capture the ringleader, and drag him to the perpetrating country’s ambassador.

Damen too had expected he could be rid of the indignity within a week, but nothing had proved effective. Increased border patrols did nothing to check to flow of slaves out of the country. A short lived measure of added surveillance on the slaves themselves only resulted in a flood of complaints. Damen had been reduced to camping outside auction blocks and personally interrogating terrified slaves about what their compatriots had been doing during the weeks before their disappearance. Damen had even gone so far as to arrange a covert “sale” of one of his own slaves, bequeathing her to one of the minor nobles, a Lady Myrrine, who had suffered the heaviest losses, with the order to tell Damen or her new master if she or any of the other slaves were approached about escaping. Nikandros had advised against it, saying that bed slaves like Damen’s lacked the capacity for deceit, but was decent enough about it to withhold his “I told you so,” when the slave too disappeared. 

As a last resort, Damen had set up a reward for any returned slave and allowed teams of bounty hunters to join the patrols. This had been slightly more successful in that they had found some fugitives, but had done nothing more to address the root of the problem other than to add credence to Damen’s theory that the slaves weren’t leaving their life of perfect luxury voluntarily, but were being coerced away, or stolen. None of the slaves returned could or would talk about what had happened to them, or where they had went. They were either too terrified to speak, shivering naked in the back of the bounty hunters’ wagons, their necks and wrists several shades paler from where their stolen gold restraints had once been, or muttered things about not understanding the language. 

So now Damen was climbing into the back of Adrastus’ covered wagon and sitting down next to rows of other slaves brought from Ios especially for this purpose. Under the guise of reparations for the prolonged investigations, Damen had sent for a few dozen palace slaves—all either trained for specific masters but ended up not being to their taste, a bit too old to be in fashion, or had broken the rules of the slave garden in some insignificant way. But despite their defects, they were palace-trained, putting them at a level of submission and value that the outskirts of Akielos might never have seen. And Damen would join them on the metaphorical auction block, and then wait around in luxury, fucking whatever noble lord or lady took the cheap deal, and wait for someone to come and kidnap him. Anything to get this whole embarrassing ordeal over with. 

It wasn’t until he was looking around the interior of the wagon that Damen felt a twinge of uncertainty. Though the palace slaves came in a range of colorings, from a tall, plump girl with bright red hair and freckles dotting her bare chest like an inverted night sky, to a boy with skin so dark he would have been invisible in the shadowed wagon if it wasn’t for a shock of hair so blond it seemed white, to a slave who was turned in a way that Damen couldn’t determine their gender, but somehow reminded Damen of the wheat fields that covered Dice, with golden skin and matching hair that tumbled down a pliant back. 

But none of them had anything close to Damen’s wrestler build. The ones with any muscle wore it like they wore every other feature: a decoration, one more bullet point for the auctioneer to rattle off. Damen had planned on braving the auction block, but Nikandros had put his foot down and arranged the sales in private. He had objected, but he might have to thank Nikandros when he returned home; sitting here, he was less confident that a country lord or lady would have a fetish for bulk. 

The wagon was quiet as they bumped and rattled down the road. A few slaves whispered to each other just out of the range of Damen’s hearing, and a girl sitting across from him hummed to herself and moved her fingers like she was playing an invisible kithara. Other than that, Damen could have been in a funeral procession. Occasionally, the wagon stopped, a few hushed and hurried goodbyes were made, the doors cracked open, and some slaves were ushered out to meet their new masters. 

Nikandros and Adrastus had arranged for Damen to be sent to a Lord Philokrates, some minor heir close to the border whose own small harem was more of a status symbol than any source of physical pleasure. Damen had to smile at the thought of Nikandros worrying about his chastity. 

The wagon was nearly empty by the time they reached Philokrates’ estate. Damen and a slim girl with a mane of long brown hair were called out and swept away into the slaves’ quarters; unusually, they were unsegregated. As far as Damen could tell, Philokrates himself had not come out to inspect the additions to his harem, nor was there any keeper. Instead there was just a small army of caretakers and a few harassed looking servants inspecting them from every intrusive angle, dunking them in a series of increasingly scented baths as if they were worried they may have contracted lice in Ios, depositing them in two plain looking cots, and leaving as quickly as they came. 

Damen had been discouraged, if not outright forbidden, from visiting the palace slave gardens, but he had occasionally glanced down at them from high windows, and smiled at pairs of trainees lounging by the reflecting pool, or chatting beneath the cool shade of trees. The slave quarters here were very different. Maybe it had to do with the fact that all the slaves here had already completed their requisite three years of training, what with there being no room nor need for training facilities in a manor with only twenty or so slaves. 

Not to say that the slaves lacked the sensually decadent lives Damen associated with them: the baths were huge and steaming, heady with lavender and chamomile, with a team of attendants to knead supple flesh with scented oils. The small garden was always filled with song, slaves practicing the pan flute, the kithara, and the aulos. Some sang ballads, often completing the ones that lasted several hours, and others practiced the steps to subtly erotic dances. But something about the overall atmosphere of the place reminded Damen of the barracks. 

And not even the barracks from his days in training, running around sweaty and exhausted but loving every moment, with older men slapping him on the back and late-night whispered consultations with his bunk-mates. It was more like the war camp, the silent exhilaration tamped down by a fear no one wanted to name. Damen had been told many times that he wasn’t very perceptive, and he didn’t know why he was sensing things so strongly now. Perhaps it was just the heady clouds of perfume that thickened the air, or the weight of the gold around his neck and wrists, that led to the illusion of an oppressive atmosphere. 

But most pressing of all: Damen was bored. The one instrument he could play with any proficiency was the salpinx, which they of course did not provide to slaves. He knew no love ballads, and could barely paraphrase the battle epics that he favored. As all the slaves here were already trained, there were no classes to attend. He could not wrestle, ride, nor practice the sword. He could be reproved for letting his gaze linger too long on a slave, and there was only so long he could stay in the baths. He even would have been content to settle down with a Patran scroll in the gardens and practice language, but slaves here were trained to speak the languages of the three cornering countries, not read them. 

And no one approached him about an escape. 

He tried to converse with his faux-peers, but any probes into the recent disappearances got him gasps and upset looks, and the only conversations they seemed to be interested in, or even qualified for, were about their favorite songs, or the First Nights, or prince how popular so-and-so was with Master such-and-such.

So when on the third day, Damen’s usual silent attendant was, according to rumor, afflicted with the Veretian Pox and he was to be attended by a table boy until they found a suitable replacement, Damen rejoiced at the opportunity. Perhaps a kitchen worker wouldn’t be so reticent. 

Damen noticed him before he even realized who he was or what he was there for. It wasn’t just the plain brown wool-spun tunic that stood out worse here than finery would, or the bare dip of collarbone that would be covered by the gold collar. It was the shock of blond hair and skin so pale Damen was sure he’d be able to trace purple-blue veins from wrist to chelidon. The people of this estate had a marked preference for dark hair and bronzed skin. 

He was talking to a slave Damen recognized as Alexius, and he looked even shyer than the bed slaves themselves. His eyes, which Damen was willing to bet the entire kingdom were a perfect shade of blue, were fixed on the floor, and his shoulders angled in like he was trying to reduce the amount of space he occupied. 

“Lavrentios!” the slave exclaimed, a bit too loudly. “It has been so long. Where have you been?”

If it was possible, Lavrentios turned more in on himself at the attention. He muttered an answer Damen couldn’t quite hear, shuffled his feet, then said a little bit louder, “I’m here to replace Hagne.”

“Oh.” Alexius pointed towards Damen. “He’s over there. Tell me, is it true that she got the pox from Lord Achaicus?”

Lavrentios said something, then turned and padded towards Damen, bare feet making soft, wet noises on the damp tile. As he got closer, Damen realized just how unkempt the kitchen-slave was; it was shocking that they would let him attend any bed slave, let alone one ostensibly trained for royalty. His hands were rough and red, like the laundry-women’s Damen had seen washing woven baskets full of old clothing in his horse rides by the river. A smear of something dark red, like ash or thick rogue, ran across his cheek, obscured by strands of oily hair that hung over his face. That, Damen was ashamed to say, gave him a sharp thrill. If his attendant's hair was golden now, how bright would it be when washed?

Lavrentios gave a quick bow when he reached Damen. “Damen- _honored_?” he asked, using an odd honorific Damen had only ever heard in Patran language lessons, something used among those who were only equals on a technicality, and of course a bed slave for a rich household would be more honored than the grubby kitchen boy, no matter how attractive he appeared to Damen’s eye. 

“That’s me,” Damen said. 

“I am your attendant for today, if it pleases you,” Lavrentios said. “Are you ready for your bath?” 

Damen slipped into the water while Lavrentios fetched a wooden bucket full of brushes and scented soaps. The bath was just on the edge of too-hot, and in other circumstances, Damen would have found it relaxing. But his muscles were already annoyingly languid, and when Damen brought his hands to the surface, he could see the paler skin on his palms were turning red with the heat. 

Lavrentios stayed kneeling on the edge of the bath, and began kneading soap into Damen’s hair.

“Are you from Patras?” Damen asked. 

Lavrentios fumbled the soap, and it slipped into the water, sinking down to the bottom of the pool. Damen half submerged himself to grab it, and when he passed it back to Lavrentios, he couldn’t tell if the redness of the boy’s face was from embarrassment or the heat. “I am, Damen- _honored_. But if I may be bold, what…what in my manner made you…?” 

“ _Honored_ ,” Damen said, mimicking the accented syllables the slave had put on the word. “That is not a word we use here.”

“I see,” Lavrentios murmured. “This slave apologizes for his ignorance. I have been here for many months now and no one has said anything. Tell me, what is the correct word?”

Damen didn’t know. He had never paid attention to the whisperings of bed slaves amongst themselves, let alone a bed slave to a table slave. Instead of answering, he asked, “I heard Alexius call you Lavrentios, but that is not a Patran name.”

“If it pleases you, the name I was given at birth was Lorens, after the old king.” His fingers felt good in Damen’s hair, like he was back in the palace being attended by Lykaios. “But I had to leave due to…I had to leave. I am now Akielon, and do not wish to be thought of as the poor boy from Patras.”

Damen was listening more to the soothing sounds of Lavrentios’ accent, which became more pronounced the longer he spoke, than the actual contents of his words. The slave’s nails scratched his scalp, which was oddly palliative. Lykaios—and indeed, every slave before her—had nails cut down to the quick. When he was done, Lavrentios poured a bucket of cool water over Damen’s head, sending a cascade of foam down Damen’s chest and small waves of soap-bubble sea foam lapping against the bath tiles. 

Beside him, Lavrentios tentatively dipped one bare leg into the water, then stepped onto the submerged ledge that outlined the pool. His woolen tunic was still on, but the water was shallow enough, and his tunic short enough, that the hem was a good few inches clear of the water. Damen stared at the doubled reflection of Lavrentios’ knees in the pool, and then followed the subtle curves of his body up to his face. 

Damen startled back. Lavrentios had pulled his hair back with a thin silver ribbon, revealing his face for the first time. What Damen had thought was a smear of dirt across his cheek was actually a disfiguring scar. It was old, a thick line of dark pink—almost the color of Lavrentios’ lips—that traveled down the left side of his nose and then split off at his cheek like a bolt of lightening, three branches that managed to touch almost every part of the slave’s face. The uppermost line cut up his cheekbone, barely a thumbnail's length from making a half circle around the eye. The middle line cut straight across and ended abruptly at the hollow of his cheek, and the lowermost cut into the corner of his top lip. 

Damen reached up without thinking about it, and was about to trace his finger across the scars like he would run his nails down the arch of a dog’s spine, when Lavrentios flinched back, hitting the floating wooden bucket of bath supplies with the back of his thigh. Damen dropped his hand. 

They stared at each other. Lavrentios was shaking, like he was on the verge of a panic attack. Damen had seen symptoms like these in his soldiers after Marlas. So he waited until Lavrentios’ breathing evened out, and then asked, “What happened?” 

Lavrentios took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then bent to retrieve a vial of scented body oil from the bucket. “As I said, I had to leave Patras for reasons. You are looking at them." He pulled the cork out from the bottle and poured some of the viscous liquid into the palm of his hand. “Would you please turn around, Damen- _honor_ —…Damen.” 

Damen did as he was asked, and felt Lavrentios’ slim fingers knead the muscles of his back, digging circles into his shoulder blades and tapping soft codes down his spine. “Were you a slave, back in Patras?”

Lavrentios laughed lightly. “A slave? Yes, yes, you could say that. You are aware that Patras has a similar—” he tapped his forefinger against the back of Damen’s neck, like he was searching impatiently for the right word.”— _custom_ of pleasure slaves?” He didn’t wait for Damen’s answer. “I suppose you could say I am a failed example. You will notice the others don't like looking at me. Please turn.” 

Damen moved so he was facing Lavrentios, and the slave bent down to trace the lines of Damen’s collarbones with oil. His face was so close to Damen’s that, as he spoke, his warm breath brushed against Damen’s cheek; but he was turned so his left cheek faced the wide expanse of water that constituted the bathing pool, and Damen was left to stare at the unmarred, peach-pale cheek, thick black lashes that framed eyes the color of the Gulf of Atros in mid-summer, and an ear with a small parade of almost-closed holes marching from the lobe to the helix, haloed by hastily pulled back hair, damp with the steam coming off the water. It wasn’t a bad view.

“But you are kind to me, here in Akielos,” Lavrentios said. “There is no point in hiding it, because others will soon tell you. I was begging doorstep to doorstep, offering what little I had for food. The kitchens here adopted me, let me sleep in the pantry. And when the master found out, I was only punished a little, and now I have a home again. How are your legs?” 

Damen almost missed the question, but before he could think of an answer, Lavrentios was already stepping out of the baths and spreading out a soft white towel. “Lay down, please.”

Damen pulled himself out of the water. “Not today,” he said. Massages were things he was used to receiving back in Ios, but something about the impersonal nature of it here made him tense. Slaves not being allowed to touch each other intimately didn’t help. “It’s not like there’s much chance that I’ll be called on.” 

The corners of Lavrentios’ lips pulled down as he wrapped another towel around Damen’s waist. “Do not worry,” he murmured, tucking a side of the towel into itself with nimble fingers. “It will happen soon enough.” 

They seemed to be having a lot of trouble replacing Hagne, because Lavrentios came back every morning. On the second day of Lavrentios attending him, or the fourth day of Damen’s self-imposed slavery, he realized that Lavrentios’ off-hand comment about the pleasure slaves not liking to look at him was right. A small contingent about of about three or four did take the time to talk to him, but they avoided looking at his face, and spoke in loud, exaggeratedly friendly tones. Damen would not be surprised about the rest just ignoring him, not even important enough to be beneath their notice, but they stole furtive glances at him as he worked, and there was always a brief hush when he walked in. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know that a scar could end a slave’s career, somewhere in the back of his mind. He just had never taken the time to think about it. The variously naked and half-naked bodies all around him had uniformly smooth skin, not even marred with the little cuts and scraps that were a natural hazard of Damen’s childhood: from a scrape up his leg from a particularly nasty fall that was a mere shadow now and the little bump in one of his toes from an ill-healed breakage, to the gnarled skin on his side from his first experience with a real sword. 

But of course, there was no fencing practice for slaves. The most dangerous sport they took part in was a kind of low energy tumbling, designed to maximize flexibility, keep a thin layer of attractive muscle, and minimize danger. It all fit in with Damen’s image of the slave gardens: tender youths lazing around on cushions, surrounded by comfort, the most stressful part of their days been a vague curiosity about whether they would be called on that night. 

He couldn’t reconcile Lavrentios with that scene. Damen could put down the meticulous efficiency and calloused hands to his new position, but he seemed on edge in a way that should have gone against everything in his life up to that point. He hadn’t flinched away from Damen since that first time, but Damen could help but notice how he always worked to be out of arm’s reach, even while attending directly to him. And most of all, even accounting for a difference in traditions between Akielos and Patras, Damen didn’t understand how Lavrentios had received that scar in the first place. 

On the fourth day of Lavrentios, or the sixth day of Damen’s slavery, Damen discovered that Patrans did not educate their slaves in Veretian. 

“I know Akielon and court Vaskian,” Lavrentios said. “And a few dialects of low Vaskian, but not as well. I do not think our relations with Vere were good. Do slaves here know it?” Lavrentios was always nervous about being behind even the most highly trained of pleasure slaves, even though it was unlikely he’d ever rise above table slave again.

“No, not usually,” Damen answered, honestly. “Though after the war, it’s become more popular in the court. A lot of people hope for a treaty.”

Lavrentios seemed to consider this as he outlined Damen’s fingernails with gold paint. “I know hello and I am sorry,” he said, saying the foreign words carefully. His Patran accent was even more pronounced in Veretian. “But I would like to learn more, one day. It is a very smooth language, I hear.”

Compared to the guttural consonants of Patran and its mother, Vaskian, Damen could understand the appeal. So as Lavrentios worked, Damen pointed at things and said the word in Veretian. Hairbrush, soap, water, oil, bucket, hand, paint. Lavrentios repeated each word with an obvious effort to be precise, but never the less mangled them almost beyond comprehension. _Bathroom_ was so broken that Damen shook with laughter, and Lavrentios had to wash off the paint that smeared up his knuckle. 

Eventually, becoming more confident in his skills, Lavrentios demanded, “Teach me a song.”

Damen rested his hands on Lavrentios’ knees while the paint dried. “I don't know any ballads, or love songs, or anything like that. I do know a folk song, but it's a little vulgar.” He had learned this particular ditty in bars near the border, sung by drunk Veretian soldiers, rope skipping children, and irreverent adults on both sides. 

Lavrentios smiled, and Damen let his voice fall into a mocking sing-song. 

“ _I am a pretty little princeling,_  
_As pretty as can be_  
_And all the boys in all the lands_  
_Are crazy over me._

_____ _

_My brother’s name is Auguste_  
_And to him I am promised._  
_With a crown on his head_  
_And a cape of red thread,_  
_I take my legs and spread._

_____ _

_My brother called me peaches,_  
_My brother fed me pears._  
_My brother gave me fifty cenz,_  
_And fucked me on the stairs._

_____ _

_____ _

_And when the fuck was over_  
_I asked him to make me queen,_  
_But he ran off with a princess_  
_When I was just eighteen._

_____ _

_____ _

_I gave the girl his ‘peaches,’_  
_I gave the girl his pears._  
_I gave the girl his fifty cenz_  
_And ran away from Vere!”_

____

____

“That is not a nice song, I think,” Lavrentios said after Damen made a rough attempt at a lyrical translation. “Is it true?” His eyes were downcast as he rubbed lotion in between Damen’s fingers, and Damen wondered if the rhyme had been too bawdy. Maybe it was good that he hadn’t been able to do the hand motions. Or the infamous ‘the next round is on me!’ stanzas that ended with _climb him like a tree_ , _got down on both knees_ , and _let ‘em cum all over me_.

“True?” 

“That Veretians have relations with their siblings.” Lavrentios met Damen’s eyes, and his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. “And that the princeling ran away.” 

Damen considered it for a second. It never did pay to put too much stock in rumors; he was certain there were dirty rhymes about him. But this one was oddly prevalent. “I’m not sure about the first one. It certainly is a popular rumor, and Veretians are more open about sex than we are.” Well, maybe not more than pleasure slaves, but he didn’t have enough information either way. “But, I’ve met both princes, a long time ago, and while they were close, it didn’t seem weird. And the younger prince is missing from the palace, but no one seems worried about it. I always assumed he was on border duty, somewhere.” 

Lavrentios blinked up at him. “You’ve met the Veretian princes?” he breathed. 

Shit. “Well, I mean, I’ve seen them around.” Damen floundered as Lavrentios’ eyes grew rounder and rounder. “I…I mean, not me, my old master, was a soldier. A royal guard, I guess, and I accompanied him to Marlas. I was in the tent when they signed the surrender.” 

Lavrentios leant in. It was unusual for him to get this close without the impetus of washing Damen. “You were really that close to royalty? Have you met the Akielon princes too?” And then, “Surrender?” 

Fuck. “Right. Treaty, I guess. I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Neither was Lavrentios. “But you must have seen the Akielon princes, yes? What were they like? How did they compare to the Veretians? Oh, I am jealous.” His voice had taken on a breathy quality. 

Damen smiled at his childish fascination. “All four were most handsome.” He ran a finger along Lavrentios’ jawbone, and was pleased with the slave’s stillness under his touch.“But not as beautiful as you, sweetheart.” 

A week and a half into Damen’s slavery, he gave into his desire to see Lavrentios’ hair without the layer of grease and said, “Will you let me attend you?” 

Lavrentios ceased running soap down Damen’s back. “Attend me?”

“Like you do me,” Damen clarified, and looked back. The slave was staring at him uncomprehendingly, so he continued, “You work in the kitchens all day, don’t you? I just sit around and take music lessons. I don’t need a bath everyday. Let me do this for you.” 

Lavrentios laughed. “You are cruel, to tease me so.” 

“I’m not teasing,” Damen said, and turned around so Lavrentios could see his face. 

“It’s against the rules.” 

“There’s no one here.” It was true. Lavrentios always came a little bit later than the other attendants, and it was not unusual for the baths to be cleared out well before they were done together. 

As Lavrentios looked around, his soft voice echoed off the walls of the empty room. “Damen, I—” 

Damen stood up, and took the soap from Lavrentios’ hand. They hadn’t stood face to face this close to each other before, and while Damen knew he was taller than Lavrentios—he was taller than most people—he hadn’t realized that he would tower over the slave like this. Close as they were, Lavrentios had to crane his neck back to look Damen in the eye. 

“Take that off and sit down,” Damen said, and he could see Lavrentios’ knees wobbling with the desire to obey. 

“Do you really want this?” Lavrentios asked, timorously. 

Damen set his wet hand on the top of Lavrentios’ head. “I do.” 

Lavrentios looked down at the reflection of his face in the cloudy water. His shoulders were tense, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands. “I…You give me too much honor, but…” He cleared his throat, and brought a hand up to trace the network of scars across his cheek. “I must warn you that I am not as skilled as I should be at hiding pain.” 

“Lavrentios,” Damen said, just barely holding himself back from placing his hand on Lavrentios’ and feeling the dents those pale scars made in his skin, “I would never cause you pain.” 

Lavrentios went white. “Oh, no, no, that is…I apologize, I was not clear.” He gestured down at the water. “Every day we add colored salts that scent the water and smooth skin, but these—” and his hand went back up to the scars “—are old, but untreated. In Patras, we have a saying like, strö salt i såren.” He looked at Damen expectantly. 

Damen smiled. It was an old expression, but Akielos had one very similar to it. “Rubbing salt in a wound, is what we say.” 

Lavrentios hesitantly smiled back. “Yes, that is it. But I…I am aware that my appearance is…and if it is causing you distress, then—” 

“No, no,” Damen said quickly. “Lavrentios, you’re gorgeous. I just want to make you happy.” Though he could admit to himself that he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to get his fingers into that hair. Maybe, when Nikandros’ loyalty lost the battle to his overprotectiveness and he came to fetch Damen early, he’d see if he could purchase Lavrentios, defected or not. In Ios, Lykaios and Lavrentios could draw an unscented bath; Damen could imagine it now. Damen’s hands in Lavrentios’ clean, damp hair; Lavrentios’ pink lips around the head of Damen’s cock; Lykaios’ sweet smile and full breasts as she worked Lavrentios open for Damen’s use. “Can I give you a massage?” 

Lavrentios blinked in surprise, then bowed his head. “This slave lives to serve,” he said, but Damen thought he could detect some hint of amusement in his voice. 

Damen examined the bucket full of products while Lavrentios fetched a towel and spread it on the floor. He had been on the receiving end of countless massages, and vaguely was aware of the movements to work out taut muscles as applied to himself in the minutes after a wrestling match. But he had never given one professionally, and was probably expected to know how to do so. 

Lavrentios was stretched out on the towel, his form that of perfect submission, his wrists crossed over his head. At first glance he looked as pliant as the finest of slaves in Ios, one of the few male slaves that would wear the golden pin that marked them as belonging to royalty. But Damen noticed a slight tautness in the slave’s biceps, the way his legs did not lay flat on the ground, like he wanted to be ready to leap to his feet at a moment’s notice. And, of course, a folded towel that disappointingly covered his waist, speaking it a self-consciousness a practiced pleasure slave would never feel, let alone display. 

But nevertheless, affection bloomed in Damen’s chest. How long had it been since Lavrentios had someone to attend to him as the prize he had undoubtedly been? And the naturally assumed pose told a whole story in itself: of training practiced alone long after it would have been any use, of an unsaid desire to submit to any command. Lavrentios was shy now—coy, even—but Damen could see him opening like a blooming flower to the lightest touch. 

Damen decided to work his way up. He poured lavender scented oil on his right hand, lifted Lavrentios’ foot up with his left, and began rubbing circles into the arch. Lavrentios jerked his foot up and away, almost kicking Damen in the chin, but when Damen looked up, concerned, Lavrentios was covering his mouth with one hand and trying to smother reflexive laughter. 

As Damen worked his way up Lavrentios’ leg, kneading muscles until his skin was supple under Damen’s fingers, Lavrentios’ let his eyes fall close, and his breathing slowed until Damen wondered if the slave had fallen asleep. Even when he reached Lavrentios’ inner thigh, hands reaching just under the edge of the folded towel, the slave only tensed a little, until Damen’s undisguised erection brushed against his pale thigh. 

Lavrentios’ eyes snapped open, but he did not pull away. Instead, he gave Damen a languid smile and said, “I had heard rumors that Akielons castrated those who attend the royal slave gardens. But I feel now that it may not be true.” 

Damen laughed, and worked farther up the slave’s thigh, until his hand was in the warm crease between leg and groin. But Lavrentios was unstirred. Perhaps his massage had been too relaxing, but before Damen could correct it, Lavrentios sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“We can’t,” Lavrentios said. “You know we can’t. If anyone found out—” 

“I don’t care,” Damen interrupted. “Lavrentios, you’re beautiful.” 

“Damen. Damen, we’d both be sold off if anyone caught us. And no one would ever take a pleasure slave found fucking a table boy.” The profanity slid from Lavrentios’ tongue as smoothly and as unexpectedly as butter. 

Damen’s hand was still massaging the inside of Lavrentios’ thigh. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care about having a master.” What he wanted to say was that he was just as unsuited to being a slave as Lavrentios was to being a table boy, serving rural lords and ladies who would only notice him as an undecorated hand putting sherbert down in front of them. But from the look on Lavrentios' face from what he had said, that thought would have broken him. 

Lavrentios’ cheeks were bloodless, his scar stark against his white skin. “No master?” he whispered, barely letting the words from his mouth. “You…” He scrambled away, almost slipping on the wet tiles, and backed up against the wall, still clutching the folded towel around his waist. 

Damen sat up on his knees and raised his hands in a cross between pacification and surrender. “Lavrentios…” 

Lavrentios gave a short laugh that didn’t contain a trace of mirth. “No master? You want to run away?” He was shaking. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. _I don’t want to go_.” 

“Lavrentios,” Damen said, as soothingly as he could. “I promise I’m not here to take you away. I didn’t mean it like that. But I don’t understand—” 

“Like Thais,” Lavrentios wailed. “Thais was always talking about _freedom_ ,” he said the word with more venom than he had sworn with, “And Phoibe was always…always…” Lavrentios hiccupped. “And then Phoibe both disappeared and she was so _kind_ and she was _new_ and she didn’t know and now she’s probably dead or maimed and—” 

Phoibe was the slave he had sent to Lady Myrrine’s estate in their first attempt at espionage. He grabbed Lavrentios’ shoulders and had to keep himself from shaking him. “You knew Phoibe? How?” Then he had to wait, murmuring reassuring platitudes while Lavrentios shuddered himself into something approaching sensibility. 

Lavrentios sniffed. “Master Philokrates is trying to court Lady Myrrine.” His dark lashes were wet with tears, his eyes red-rimmed. “And since…since…so many of her slaves have disappeared, he sends some of us over to help her. And Phoibe—Phoibe wasn’t afraid to look at me. Thais wasn’t either but she was always wanting me to talk about how it hurt.” He choked on the last word, so it came out more like huh-huh-huh-urt. “And how he was cruel but he wasn’t and—” 

Damen wished these rural nobles would just tell him things. If they weren’t so reticent, Damen wouldn’t have even been called out here. This all would have been solved ages ago. It wasn’t like sharing slaves was illegal, or even frowned upon. It just had connotations of poverty, which neither Damen nor the investigating military would have cared about. 

“This Thias,” Damen said. “Is she still there?” 

Lavrentios gave a prolonged shudder that Damen interpreted as a nod. 

Damen moved so he was sitting by Lavrentios’ side and wrapped an arm around the slave. They stayed there, the silence only broken by Lavrentios’ occasional hiccupped tears, until Lavrentios was calm enough to get on his feet and return to the kitchens. 

Lavrentios didn’t come back after that. Hagne returned, looking no worse for her supposed infliction, and it was only a few days later that Nikandros’ nerves wore too thin and he came to fetch Damen. 

Damen was standing in Lord Philokrates’ office, half-heartedly listening to Nikandros trying to explain the circumstances without revealing Damen’s identity and bringing shame on both the royal family and all of Akielos, when Philokrates sneered and said, “Stop the slaves, eh? Go ahead and take him then, fat lot of good he’s done us. I had two good slaves disappear last night, and one of them was very valuable.” 

Damen was back on alert before Nikandros could even open his mouth. “Who?” 

Philokrates eyed Damen. “Alexius,” he said. “And,” he glanced down at a bundle of papers on his desk, “A table slave called Lavrentios.” 

Damen turned on Nikandros. “Did you bring a horse with you? Where is it?” 

“Just outside. Damen, what’s—” 

“Give me your cloak.” 

Nikandros unfastened his cloak and handed it to Damen even while he was protesting. 

Damen interrupted. “Find a girl slave named Thias at Lady Myrrine’s. I suspect she’s a spy.” He took the cloak, threw it around his bare torso, clapped Nikandros on the shoulder, and took off. 

He was on the mare before Nikandros could have even began to make sufficient apologies, and was riding past the treeline that marked the beginning of the forests between Akielos, Patras, and Vask before he heard Nikandros alternately yelling his name and swearing. He didn't look back, instead offering silent thanks that Lord Philokrates’ estate was so close to the border.

They couldn’t have gone far. If they were walking, they had no chance against any horse with so little a lead, especially one of Nikandros’ finest. If the thieves had brought horses, neither of the slaves should be able to ride—it was always assumed that they would be provided covered wagons—and a horse carrying two people would move slower and have to rest more often. And of course, if the thieves had brought wagons to bundle the stolen slaves into, that would slow them down even more. All Damen had to do was ride fast and hope he found the right path. 

The specter of Lavrentios’ face, red with tears, mouth miming _I don’t want to go_ , seemed to possess him. At least this confirmed his theory that the slaves weren’t willingly leaving, but the thought brought him no comfort. 

He stopped only to let the horse, a calm little dappled mare who put up with his panic with quiet grace, drink and and nibble at grass. An hour in, the sky gave up with whatever reserve she possessed and released all her rain at once. It wasn’t long before he was soaked to the bone, and he could feel the mare shivering under him. 

He slowed to a trot and took stock of his surroundings. If he had ridden straight, he should be heading north-west, into…well, Acquitart, not Vere in a strictly technical sense, but close enough that the distinction didn’t matter. Vere was little more than a hunch, brought on by long years of tense relations, but it was better than nothing. Damen figured he was close enough that even a sedate ride would bring him to Acquitart in a day and a half, and if he hadn’t caught any hint of them then, he would turn around and save Nikandros from his heart attack. 

When the rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped, Damen kept riding until he found a shallow river, then swung off the horse, dug around the saddlebags, and pulled out two apples: one for him, one for the horse. He scratched her behind the ears, then laid out Nikandros’ cloak over the roots of a tree, let the mare rest and drink, and sat down to enjoy his impromptu meal. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting bolt upright. He could hear hoofbeats. It wasn’t his mare; she was standing quietly, nuzzling the apple core Damen had discarded. No, these sounded like they were coming from the other side of the river, and they were quickly slowing down. 

The mare whickered as Damen rose softly to his feet. He threw the cloak over her back and grabbed her bridle, hoping beyond hope that she would stay quiet as he inched closer to the river. 

The hoofbeats had stopped, and there was a brief shuffling sound that Damen interpreted as someone dismounting, and then a scream and thump that translated very clearly to someone unskilled falling off their horse. 

“It doesn’t look like he’s here yet,” said someone after a minute. The voice seemed familiar, but odd somehow. “We’ll give him until noon, and if he doesn’t show up, we’ll just have to try ourselves. Are you hungry?” 

Damen looked up. It had been mid-morning when Nikandros arrived, and now the sun was nearly at its apex. It couldn’t be more than an hour until noon. But Damen didn’t have time to go confront them before their reinforcements arrived. There was a whinny, then a series of splashes that worked progressively closer. Damen peered around the tree. 

A horse was galloping along the river, hooves clattering on the stony bottom. The man riding him was mostly obscured by a cloak, though it seemed too dry, considering the weather. He slowed down as he came parallel to Damen, but he was looking in the other direction. Damen followed his gaze. 

From the cover of the trees, Lavrentios emerged, leading a grey horse by the reins. He was wearing the same woolen tunic that Damen had grown used to seeing him in, but paired with black trousers in the Veretian style, cut off just under the knee to allow for expensive looking stockings and leather boots. His hair was wet and plastered to the sides of his face, and his expression conveyed none of the eager-to-please innocence that Damen had come to know. Damen might not have believed it was Lavrentios at all, had he not been so distinctively beautiful. 

“You’re late,” Lavrentios said, in Veretian. 

The rider gave a bow from atop the horse. “My apologies, my…Laur…boss,” he finished lamely. “The rain loosened the cliff rocks, I didn’t want to risk it.” He peered above Lavrentios. “Is anyone with you?” 

Lavrentios turned his head and said in Veretian-accented Akielon, so different from the fumbling Patran accent he had used with Damen, “Alexius?” 

Alexius crept forward. Unlike Lavrentios, her hair was merely damp, but over her scanty slave linens, she wore a thick cloak with the hood pulled down. She looked up at the rider with brown eyes wide with fear, gave a tiny bow, and whispered, “Thank you for your trouble.” 

“Jord, this is Alexius. She doesn’t ride very well, so be careful,” Lavrentios said, in Veretian. He turned to Alexius and, switching back to Akielon, said, “Alexius, this is Jord. He doesn’t know very much Akielon, but I assure you he’ll keep you safe. Do you need help getting up?” 

Alexius gave an embarrassed nod. Lavrentios knelt, then paused and stood back up. He pulled off the tunic and handed it to Alexius. Underneath he wore only a thin linen shirt, tight silver laces going up each side. It somehow seemed more revealing than nudity. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Veretian customs,” he said, still in Akielon. “You’re pretty enough to affect Jord’s riding and, besides, it gets cold at night.” 

Alexius clutched at the ugly garment like she had never been given anything more beautiful. “But, sir, what about you?”

Lavrentios smiled, knelt back down in the mud and cupped his hands together. Alexius stepped into them—her feet were still bare—and Lavrentios pushed her up high enough to get easily into the saddle. 

The horse pranced a little in place as Alexius settled behind Jord. Cold water splashed up Lavrentios’ legs. And Damen, praying that their voices would mask any noise he made, put one foot in the stirrups and swung himself onto his horse. 

“Boss,” Jord said, tone odd, as he reached up to unfasten his cloak. “Take this. When will you be back? Your brother’s sent another letter requesting your presence.” 

Lavrentios caught it and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Soon enough. Maybe I’ll beat you there.” He froze in place. “Damen?” he said, drawing out every syllable like that would give him more time to think as Damen rode out, face thunderous. 

Jord followed Lavrentios’ gaze. “Fuck,” he said. He reached down, as if he wanted to pull Lavrentios onto the horse as well, but his hand was ignored. 

Lavrentios slapped their horse on the rump. It reared up, and Alexius clung to the back of Jord’s shirt to keep from sliding off. “Get going!” he yelled as he ran back to his own horse and swung up into the saddle. 

He needn’t have bothered. Damen had eyes only for Lavrentios, who was nothing like what he’d claimed to be. They stared at each other as Jord galloped off, Damen completely still, his horse ignoring the gravity of the situation by taking the time to bend her head down and drink from the cool stream. Lavrentios’ own horse was dancing slightly, nervous, but Lavrentios himself was unaffected. 

“Damen,” Lavrentios said, and a dagger appeared in his hand as if it had been summoned with his name. “What a pleasant surprise. If you’re here to ask for help escaping, I’m truly sorry to tell you that we’re moving out of the area.” 

“You’re the thief,” Damen said, hoping…well, what? That Lavrentios would deny it, say Damen was mistaken? Or that if he said it out loud his mind would begin to comprehend it?

Lavrentios laughed. “Thief? Is that what you think I am? I knew you were bad, but I thought you knew better than to think anyone can steal _people_. Really, if anyone could be accused of that, wouldn't it be your country?” 

“But why?” Damen asked. “You’re, you’re…” Forcing, he wanted to say, stealing, brainwashing, but he couldn’t project fright onto Alexius’ expression until Damen himself showed up. Only nervous determination. He wasn’t sure if there was a word for what he wanted to say. “You’re tricking these people into leaving their homes, Lavrentios. Why would you—” 

“I’m a very good rider,” Lavrentios said. He was adjusting his borrowed cloak, a little too big for him, and when he pulled the hood up, the catch slid down to reveal the pale hollow of his throat. “So I’ll make you a deal.” The dagger disappeared. He shifted very slightly in the saddle, and Damen noticed how good his seat was: his ear, shoulder, hip, and heel formed a perfect vertical line, his legs were secured a little behind the saddle girth, and he was bent over at the hip instead of the waist. 

Too late, Damen put together the pieces. Lavrentios’ horse had broken into a gallop, heading up the river, the opposite of his earlier companions. Damen’s mare spooked at the sudden movement and shied back. By the time Damen had gotten her under control, Lavrentios was far up the river and calling back, “I’ll tell you if you catch me!”

In another world, another lifetime, Damen wouldn't have done it. He’d turn and go after the much slower Jord and Alexius, bagging a conspirator and returning a slave. He’d go home to Nikandros and Lykaios, use the information he now had to track Jord and Lavrentios down. But in this time, in this place, Damen was angry. So he chased. 

Damen did not consider himself particularly equestrian. He knew horsey people, who would spend all day grooming their charges, lecturing about the bond between man and beast, and would muck out stables with a smile. He was not one of them. But he enjoyed a gallop as well as anyone who could ride a horse did: the cool wind in his hair and face, the smoothness of the four beat gait compared to the bumping trot, the exhilaration of seeing the scenery blur past. 

This was not one of those rides. 

There was no worn down path through these woods, and Damen was always on the edge of an emergency dismount in case his mare tripped or was startled. Lavrentios seemed to be navigating by instinct, if he was paying attention at all. Sometimes he swerved to jump over a fallen tree instead of going around it, and it took every bit of horsemanship Damen had to keep his mare from rearing up in fright when confronted with the sudden obstacle. The wind blew right through Damen’s wet clothes, and mud flew from the horse's hooves and splattered up his bare legs. Even the horse’s movements under him seemed designed to irritate; as he let his body ease into the mare’s back and forth rocking, he was viscerally reminded of how little he had eaten recently. 

Whenever Damen let the mare slow to a trot to catch her breath, Lavrentios was always trotting ahead of him, just visible around the foliage. He never let Damen lose sight of him. 

They were maybe sixty stadia into it when the ground to Damen’s left fell away into a precipice, and the right rose up to reveal a stark cliff face. Lavrentios slowed to a controlled canter, then to a trot, then to a careful jog. Damen, now more concerned with a nervous horse bucking him off the side of a mountain, and recognizing a better horseman when he saw one, followed his lead. The trail narrowed as it rose in altitude, and Damen began to entertain the idea of suggesting they turn around and resume the chase on firmer ground; he was certain Lavrentios wouldn’t be continuing up if Damen wasn’t close behind. 

Damen was so focused that when the inevitable happened, he saw every second like it was a separate scene woven into a tapestry. Lavrentios’ horse stepped forward, foreleg coming out, the heel of its hoof coming down a split second before the toe. As the horse shifted its weight onto the limb, it lost traction. Lavrentios’ rendezvous had been right about the dangerous terrain. Lavrentios must have sensed an unsteadiness even before the bulk of the horse realized it should have been falling: his feet were out of the stirrups and his hands had dropped the reins before Damen could open his mouth to shout a reflexive warning, he was pressing his hands to the horse’s withers as Damen forced out the first panicked syllable of Lavrentios’ name, and he was vaulting off the nearside and rolling away from the falling horse by the time Damen came to his senses and pulled on the reins of his own mare. 

Unfortunately, the nearside happened to be the precipice. 

Lavrentios scrabbled for a hold to stop his momentum, but the land was all mud. He caught some grass in his fingers, but it tore out from the ground, roots and all. It was the thick mud clinging to his cloak that stopped him, right on the edge of the cliff. 

Damen slipped off his mare and crept cautiously to Lavrentios’ side. He was struggling for breath, and was covered in mud, but was otherwise none the worse for his ordeal. Damen reached down and grabbed Lavrentios’ arm, pulling him to his feet. 

“So what did you say you would do if I caught you?” Damen said, and then the ground gave way beneath them. 

The fall was a blur. He was tumbling, with no sense of direction. There were times where he could have sworn he was going up. Mud was everywhere: his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his ears. Damen couldn’t have said when he let go of Lavrentios, but there was some time in the chaos where he realized his hand was clutching at nothing, and so he wrapped his arms around his head as he bounced and slid down the cliff face. 

He wasn’t even sure when he stopped moving. His head was spinning, and by the time he got into any kind of lucidity to register stillness, two hands were digging through the debris and pulling at him. 

“Stop struggling,” someone said, their voice muffled through the mud in Damen’s ears, “Or I’ll leave you here. Fuck, why are you so heavy?” Arms laced around Damen’s armpits and tugged. 

The mud seemed to want him to stay, like a thousand brown hands clutching and clinging to his skin, but after a lifetime, he was free from the mire, and the hands were pushing him onto his side and hitting his back until he coughed up more mud than anyone should have been able to swallow. 

When Damen mustered the energy to scrub at his face and open his eyes, Lavrentios was sitting cross-legged on a felled tree a few feet away, studying Damen. 

Lavrentios smiled coquettishly. “What were you saying about catching me?” 

Damen rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. The grey clouds which had caused so much trouble were rolling away, but sky was quickly going dark. After a minute of contemplation, he said, “What the fuck was that?” 

“A precipitous mudslide.” Lavrentios sounded very amused for someone who had just fallen off a mountain. Damen wondered if he had somehow orchestrated it to escape. “Well, precipitous for you, serendipitous for me.” 

Damen tried to sit up, but fell back as a sharp pain dug into his side. Lavrentios was next to him before he could make another go at it, kneeling by his head and pushing his shoulders down. 

“Did you hit your head, or have you always been this stupid?” Lavrentios demanded. “Stay down.” He pulled up Damen’s tunic and started prodding at his ribs. “Tell me if this hurts. You probably broke something.” 

Damen laughed. Lavrentios had used the wrong word for _broke_ , something more akin to shattered porcelain than bones, but Lavrentios poked him extra hard just below his ribs in retribution. 

“Your scar is gone,” Damen said as Lavrentios leaned over him. He had noticed something amiss earlier, but had been too caught up in the betrayal and then the chase to pay much attention to a cheek that was pinkier than the other, instead of a disfigured one. 

“My scar,” Lavrentios said, moving his fingers upward, “Was beeswax and achiote blended in with my mother’s rouge. Very prone to washing off in the rain, or anything more powerful than a slight steaming.”

“Did you tell the truth about anything?” 

Lavrentios considered this. “I really didn’t think your _I am a pretty little princeling_ song was very nice.” 

Damen groaned. “You’re Veretian, aren’t you?” Fuck, and he had tried to teach him all those basic Veretian nouns. And a few swears. “I guess Lavrentios, or whatever the fuck your Patran name was, isn’t real either?” 

“Lorens? No. My name’s Laurent.” He prodded Damen’s other side, and Damen winced as pain shot through his abdomen. Lavrentios—Laurent—sat back on his heels. “You probably hit a few rocks, but I don’t think anything’s broken.” 

“After the new prince, instead of the old king. Explains why you didn’t like the song,” Damen said, and slowly sat himself up. “Thanks. Are you alright?” 

Laurent waved his hand in dismissal. “Fine. I got tangled up in a tree’s branches as soon as you let go of me. Got no momentum at all, really.” He held up his bare arms as proof. There were a few brownish-red spots that promised some nasty bruises in the future, some small cuts that were already scabbing over, but he was otherwise unscathed. But Damen noticed splash of blood across his abdomen, still wet and soaking into the linen undershirt. 

Laurent followed his gaze. “I found your horse before I found you,” he said. “What was her name?” 

Damen’s hand grabbed Laurent’s shirt and pulled him closer before his brain caught up to what he was doing. “You killed her?” 

“Her neck was broken,” Laurent said. “She was very afraid, and in a lot of pain. I did the only thing I could.” 

Damen let go of Laurent, ran a hand through his hair, and only succeeded in getting more mud on both his hand and in his hair. “Fuck. Just. Thanks, I guess.” 

“Her name?” Laurent prodded. 

It didn’t seem the time to admit he had all but stolen her. “Balios,” he said. “It means—” 

“Dappled,” Laurent said. “ _Tacheté_. A good name. But,” and he pulled one knee up to his chest and leaned his chin on it, “This leaves you in a tricky situation, Damen- _honored_. I have a knife, and I would be shocked if you managed to hide anything in the bedsheet you’re passing off as clothes. I have your saddlebags, which contain the only food and clean water within some distance of here. You have on the collar and bracelets of a slave in an area infested with fugitive hunters, and I just saved your life.” He said it with more contemplation than menace, like he wanted a second opinion on a difficult piece of arithmetic. 

“You won’t kill me,” Damen said. “And you won’t leave me either. If you wanted to, you would have.” 

“I won’t kill you,” Laurent agreed. “But I haven’t made up my mind about leaving you. The question is, what benefit do you provide to me that I wouldn’t have elsewise?” 

“No, the question is, why do you want me?” Damen said. “Like you said, there are slave hunters patrolling this area, and I’m dressed—” 

“Dressed!” 

Damen ignored this. “I’m dressed as a slave. The one who would be in trouble in that situation is you, not me. They think I’m a stolen slave, I’m returned to Akielos. And since I’m not really a slave, I’m in the clear, with a free trip back home.” 

Laurent tilted his head. “Not really a slave? How would I ever have guessed? Your proprietary attitude, your lack of knowledge about even the most basic duties or customs, how you were so void of any kind of skill you lowered the value of your temporary peers by existing, the sheer implausibility of your muscle mass, or even that you chased me twenty miles in unstable borderlands? Those would have never tipped me off if you hadn’t said anything. Or receiving the worst massage possible.” 

“What? How?” Damen had been trying pretty hard. 

Laurent rolled his eyes. “You rubbed one leg before you felt me up. I have two, you know.” 

“You, on the other hand,” Damen said, deciding to ignore this, “Will be highly suspicious with or without me. They’ll find you and bring in you in for questioning, or they’ll match your description to Lavrentios the table slave and keep you under lock and key, and then when I get back, I’ll tell them who you really are.” 

“The worst part is that you really think you’re being clever, don’t you?” Laurent said. “Who told you that those poor, scared, escaped slaves get a nice ride back with some understanding thugs? Trained in trauma counseling? Maybe they get a blanket and a nice warm cup of cocoa as well?” He leaned forward. “Have you met any? Because I have. And people who get paid to chase terrified, scantily clad teenagers who have never been taught the word ‘no’ through four counties, they aren't known for being nice, or understanding, or even too concerned with getting anyone home. They can't leave scars, of course. That’d raise even the suspicions of people like you. Nothing more noticeable than a few bruises. Now, I don’t want to upset your delicate Akielon sensibilities by getting too graphic, but I can’t seem to remember the innuendo I’m looking for. In Vere, we have an expression like, _un coup bas_. What’s the Akielon equivalent? Something like, under the zone?” 

“ _Kátō apó tē zṓnē_ ,” Damen said, then switching to Veretian, “Below the belt.”

Laurent clapped his hands together. “Yes! That’s it: they stay below the belt.” His expression soured, and he pushed himself to his feet. “But who cares? I'm sure it would be far stranger for you to have someone asking permission. I wish you all the luck in the world.” 

He strode away, picking his feet high to clear the drying mud. 

Damen groaned, and forced himself to his feet. His whole body was one big bruise, but it didn’t actually feel as if anything had broken. He considered taking off his mud-caked chiton, imagined a night in the woods naked, and decided to scrape off as much muck as he could. Then he started to jog in the direction Laurent had headed. 

He caught up to Laurent just as the debris began to smooth out into land. Laurent didn’t slow down as Damen came up beside him, didn’t even look around. A saddlebag was slung across his back; the handle of the knife hung loosely from his fingers. 

“Laurent,” Damen said. “I don’t know where we are.” 

“Maybe you should have considered picking up a map before chasing me.” 

“What happened to your horse?” Horses generally could find their way back home much better than a human could; if one horse was alive, they could follow it. 

“I assume,” Laurent said icily, “That she was far enough from the cliff face that she didn’t fall with us. If not, she’s dead, and I didn’t find her. Will you quit following me?” 

It reminded Damen of when he and Kastor where children, and Kastor would get upset at something and storm off, leaving little Damen to struggle along behind him, much to Kastor’s disgust. Only now, Damen’s legs were a lot longer than Laurent’s, and he had to slow down to keep pace with him. 

“I’m not letting you go that easily,” Damen said, half in jest. “And definitely not until you think of some excuse for steal—abducting slaves.” 

“I do it because it’s the right thing to do. Does that satisfy you?” 

“Not really.” 

Laurent’s hands twisted at his sides, like he was attempting to grasp at something intangible. “Slaves are…they’re slaves. The very word is reprehensible. You use it instead of saying they’re people. Anyway, I don’t steal, or abduct, or whatever, anyone. I rescue them, and only those who want to leave.”

Damen stopped, aghast. Laurent walked on a bit before realizing he was unaccompanied, then quickened his step. 

“They want to go?” Damen repeated. The concept was unthinkable. “But they exchange their freedom for perfect treatment. They live in paradise!” 

“Did anyone thinking up that pithy justification ask themselves if they would give up their own freedom for paradise?” Laurent asked. He hadn’t looked over at Damen for this whole conversation. “Besides, the logic behind it is faulty. Typical of Akielos. The slaves weren’t the ones who gave up their freedom; their parents did, or their grandparents, or some relative up the genealogy. Two, being a demoted prostitute isn’t anyone’s idea of paradise.” 

Damen considered this for a second, then said, pointedly, “I wasn’t lying about being at Marlas. I know Veretians. You can’t say that your sexual proclivities are all pure.” 

“Our sexual proclivities are founded on a mutual agreement, with plenty of channels for the pets to seek retribution if that relationship is abused,” Laurent said, still walking. 

Damen ignored this. “And I wasn’t lying about seeing the Veretian royal family either. Next to the prince, there was a young boy. Maybe eleven or twelve.” 

“Next to Prince Auguste?” Laurent said. “That would have been Prince Laurent.” 

Damen shook his head. “Not Auguste. The…the late King Aleron’s younger brother. Their uncle.” For the life of him, Damen couldn’t remember the man’s name. But a common Akielon soldier probably wouldn’t either. “I was told that the boy was his pet. Say what you want about us, but at least we don’t fuck boys.” 

Laurent went completely still. “He was exiled,” he said, so quietly that Damen had to strain to hear him over the background noise of the woods. “He’s in Patras.”

Damen scoffed. “You know just as well as I do that it wasn’t for his tastes.” 

Laurent turned on Damen, his eyes blazing. “‘Akielons don’t fuck boys,’ you say? Do you know anything about your own damn country? It’s children who are sold into slavery, or whose mothers are slaves, and are raised in what amounts to farms, getting taught sexual positions and obeisance and that the highest honor anyone can gain in life is to be fucked by…well, fucked by anyone with enough money to buy them. Then they enter real training, in your so-called ‘slave gardens’ the day after their first nocturnal emission. Do you know what the average age of puberty in boys is? It’s nine to thirteen years old. And then they train for their oh-so-sacred First Night for three years, unless they do something heinous to be kicked out and sold for cheap, like daring to love with a fellow slave, or falling down the stairs and getting scarred. They pass all that, and they’re getting their first fuck while around twelve to sixteen years old. You don’t think that they’re boys? Vulnerable boys who have been lied to their whole lives and think their entire value lies in how fuckable they are?” 

“Laurent—” 

“And girls, too. They enter the slave gardens after their first bleed. Average age for that is twelve, plus three years of training, and that means you’re fucking them at fifteen. And you know, looking at you, at how you act, maybe that’s when you had your First Night, if they call it that for freedmen, if you prescribe any holiness to a virginity that isn’t a slave’s. But I’d bet you anything that it was something you chose to do, with someone you knew and had a certain fondness for, probably with someone around your own age and definitely not with someone twice or three times that, whose attractiveness exists only because you’ve been indoctrinated since you were born to spread your legs for anyone with a tone of command.”

“Laurent—”

“Did you not think I would see how you looked at me when I lay down for that—” he laughed, “—massage? ‘Oh my poor Akielon heart, this disfigured little kitchen slave still retains his training, how cute. Let me give him a semblance of normality by treating him like I would treat one of the beautiful ones whom I ordered to my bed, by giving him a half-assed parody of attendance. My dear sweet Lavrentios, every night you probably return to your cot and cross your work-roughened hands over your head and imagine you are still in the Patran slave gardens. Let me remind you of those halcyon days when you were the fucktoy of a psychopath. Let’s pretend you’re still worth something.’”

“ _Laurent!_ ” 

Laurent paused for breath. “I was at Marlas as well,” he said, his voice snapping back to leveled calm. “I know the boy you speak of. You don’t. You know nothing of his circumstances, and you’ve done nothing to educate yourself about the state of your country, let alone mine.” He pointed a trembling finger up at the sun. “It’s past noon. The sun sets in the west, so if you face the sun right now, and turn left, you should be heading south, towards Akielos. I’m not deceiving you, this is the one time I am telling you the unadulterated truth. Just get out of my sight.” 

Damen looked to the direction Laurent had named as south. It was the exact opposite of the direction Laurent was heading. “Why are you going to Vask?” 

Laurent gave him a scathing look. “I’m going to Vere.”

“You’re going north.” 

“Vere is north of Akielos, dumbass.” 

“North-west,” Damen corrected. “And we were in north-east Delpha, so due north leads you right into Vask.” 

“Fine,” Laurent snapped. “I need a vacation.” He started walking again. 

Damen jogged to keep up. “The clans won’t take kindly to a pretty boy like you.” 

“You say that like it’s any of your fucking business.”

“You’re a wanted criminal,” Damen said. “It is my business.”

“Akielons really don’t know the meaning of ‘no,’ do they?” Laurent said. 

It was a chance flash of sunlight off the knife blade that saved Damen’s life. He ducked as Laurent stabbed the air where his neck had been. 

In ordinary circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a contest. Damen had raw strength and his bruised and bloody fists. Laurent had speed, a knife, and the advantage of surprise. But they were both injured, exhausted, and impatient. 

Damen grabbed at Laurent’s arm to keep him from using the knife, but his grip was so weak Laurent wrenched away easily. He stumbled back. Damen caught Laurent’s forearm and pulled him up, and Laurent twisted the knife around so his fingers gripped the lower crossguard instead of the handle. The blade sliced down his palm and dug into Damen’s skin. 

They stared at each other, panting. 

“You keep the dagger,” Damen said. “And I’ll carry the saddlebag.” 

They made rudimentary camp by a river that night. Damen made a fire, more out of habit from years of military discipline than any real necessity. Nikandros’ saddlebag didn’t have much: a nosebag filled with fodder for the horse, an extra chiton and sandals he had probably intended to give to Damen, a skin of water, some dried meat, and a hoof rasp. After some digging, Damen found some rolled up bandages. 

Laurent chewed on the jerky and peered into the nosebag while Damen daubed at his unscabbed cuts with a square of bandage. It was almost cruel how he could still look so attractive when he was sweaty and dirty, pulling jerky apart with his teeth, and elbow deep in a bag of clippings. 

“You ought to fire your groom,” Laurent said, voice a little muffled from chewing. He held a pile of fodder in one palm and was shifting through it with a pinky. “A working horse should not be getting this much bran mash. And is this an apple? I’m shocked your horse wasn’t the one to founder.” 

Damen leaned over and plucked a cut up piece of dried apple from Laurent’s hand and tossed it into his mouth. It was sour and mushy, but it was worth it to see the abject disgust on Laurent’s face. 

“So where are we headed?” Damen asked, as soon as he got the taste out of his mouth. 

“I,” Laurent said, pointedly, “am following the river until I find a town and can get my bearings. I have no idea where you’re going.” 

“Gave up with the angle of the sun stuff?” Damen teased. “You know all the animals congregate by the river, right? Wolves, mountain lions…”

Laurent’s lips pursed, but he didn’t deign to respond. 

“Well,” Damen dragged out the vowel, “I’ll take first watch. You can get to sleep.”

Laurent pulled his knees up to his chest and glared at Damen. 

As dusk darkened into night and Laurent hadn’t moved, Damen gave up. “Wake me up if you want to sleep,” he said, laying down in the soft grass and resting his head in the crook of his arm. 

Damen rose with the dawn. He wasn’t surprised to find Laurent still awake, purple-blue insomnia darkening his eyes. He was more surprised to find Laurent hadn’t used Damen’s sleep to move on without him. The fire was still going, so Laurent must have gotten up at some point to collect wood, but other than that, there was no sign he had moved at all. 

“You snore,” Laurent said, unfolding himself from his huddle. His movements looked painful and stiff. “I’m sure it was loud enough to keep any predators far away. They probably thought it was a bear too stupid to realize it shouldn't be hibernating.”

“I have been called a bear before,” Damen mumbled, sleep fuzzing his voice. “But generally with more affection.” 

“In Vere, children receive small toys stuffed with straw, beans, or cotton, if they’re rich. They’ve got little round ears, like bears,” Laurent said. His voice was distant and unfocused. “And then when they’re older, they realize bears aren’t something to keep nightmares away, but big lumbering brutes of creatures who wouldn’t hesitate to gut a man.”

Damen pushed himself to his feet. “And your point is?” He began to mix dirt and sand into the fire. 

Laurent shrugged. “Anyone who called you a bear with affection can’t have had too much experience. Will you hurry up?”

Damen smiled. Bear had a very unchildish connotation in Akielos. “I’d move faster if you helped. Or do you not know how to break camp?”

“Why would I bother, when kind idiots like you do it without even being asked?” 

Damen poked a charred stick. It was nearly cool. “Like a slave, you mean?” He noticed Laurent had moved more than to get wood. Damen had changed into the extra clothes in Nikandros’ saddlebag, but when he had gone to sleep, Laurent was still coated in drying mud. But he must have taken the time last night to wash. His trousers and stockings were relatively clean, and his white undershirt was still slightly damp with river water. Only his leather shoes were muddy. 

“Is this an argument you want to have?” Laurent said. 

Damen hadn’t realized how still Laurent was until he wasn’t. In the slave gardens, all of Lavrentios’—Laurent’s—actions were smooth, premeditated. When he wasn’t working, the only sign of life was the gentle rise and fall of his chest. But this Laurent was jittery, rocking back and forth as he watched Damen. 

“Are you alright?” Damen asked. 

“No,” Laurent said. “Are you coming, or are you just going to stand around and ask nonsense questions?” He picked up the bag, significantly lighter now, and started walking downriver. 

Damen jogged after him and pulled the saddlebag off his shoulder. “Going to tell me what’s wrong? Or are you a child throwing a tantrum after staying up past bedtime?”

“If you hadn’t decided to chase after me, I would be asleep in a warm bed right now, looking forward to a delicious meal.” Laurent’s stamping feet made tracks along the river bank; Damen wondered if predators recognized shoes as human footprints. “Is that reason enough, or should I go on?”

“I thought I was trying to rescue you,” Damen said. “Save your life, that kind of thing.”

“You could have left it to the experts,” Laurent replied. “They’re much easier to avoid. But no, you had to go play hero. Trust me on this one thing, at least: your abducted slaves are headed to a much better life.”

“That’s almost exactly what parents tell children when their grandparents die. What do you even do with them? Has Vere run out of pets?”

“Some of them do become pets, yes,” Laurent acknowledged. “After all, it’s the only life they know. But we have a school set up. They can learn whatever they’re interested in learning, instead of what their masters are interested in hearing. A lot of them are working to buy their loved ones. And we get them jobs, and housing, and surround them with people they don’t need to feel subservient too.” 

Damen tried to imagine Lykaios doing anything other than serving him. Tried to see her fully clothed. What would she be? A milkmaid? A bar-wench? Would she get married to a Veretian? Every thought was worse than the next. “All that skill, wasted. They're artisans, Laurent. Would you tell a sculptor not to sculpt?”

“And would you chain his hands to a chisel?” 

Damen rolled his eyes. “Snappy responses don’t amount to a good argument, Laurent.” 

“A metaphor doesn’t cease being sound just because it’s ‘snappy.’ But I have just as little hope convincing you of your country’s amorality as you have of convincing me,” he replied. “I am trying to get to Vere. I need neither your company nor your conversation.” 

“I can’t believe you can find many people who want to converse with you,” Damen said, half to himself. 

Laurent didn’t reply. 

They made good time. Laurent led the way, tracing his way through foliage, snapping branches back into Damen’s face (even though he had to reach up to push branches that were anywhere near eye-level for Damen), and occasionally wading through the river. He stopped only to dip cupped hands into the river and drink; he seemed determined to ignore Damen’s presence, despite the fact that he had been the one to offer teaming up in the first place. 

He wondered what they would do when they finally reached Vere. Laurent didn’t seem like the type to point him in the right direction and leave, but he didn’t seem like he’d turn around and stab Damen either. But then again, he hadn’t seemed like a Veretian illegal abolitionist in the slave gardens. Damen couldn’t be sure that this Laurent was the real one either. 

Laurent stopped walking sometime after dusk, settling down without preamble in the furled roots of a willow, his back facing the river. Damen sighed and began to start making a fire. 

He hadn’t had to start a fire by hand since military training, back when he was barely a teenager, but it had been drilled into his bones. He gathered some rocks from the river and made a small circle, then picked up a fallen willow branch and sat down cross-legged, the branch across his knees. Laurent watched, only the motion of his eyes betraying his interest, as Damen began to strip the branch of leaves and bark, making a nest inside the rock circle. 

“Pass me the knife,” Damen said. 

Laurent acquiesced, but Damen noticed how his muscles tensed as Damen shucked shoots off the bark until he had a flat board, then cut a ν-shaped notch into the flat board. He handed Laurent back the knife hilt first, and Laurent relaxed back into the tree. 

He chose the biggest shoot, put a strip of bark under the ν to catch an ember, and began rubbing the spindle between his palms, until his hands were numb, more splintered than a pincushion, and an ember had caught to the bark. Damen let it fall into the nest of leaves, then gently blew on it as the ember grew, licking its paltry fuel and growing into a comfortable flame. He threw a few larger branches in, washed his hands in the river, and lay back in the grass, enjoying the simple pleasure of a roaring fire. 

He said, “In Akielos, we gather around campfires to boast about our feats in battle and recite epics.” 

“Yes, the famous Akielon stirring of the blood,” Laurent said. “Do you then sacrifice a sheep, bath in its entrails, and use its blood as lubricant for an bacchanalian orgy, as the rumors say?” His tone was flat: not a trace of humor nor curiosity. 

“No,” Damen said carefully. “Not when I’ve been around. What do you do in Vere?” 

“We stay warm. Children tell stories and attempt to scare their younger siblings.” 

“Will you tell me one?” Damen stirred the fire with a stick.

He had expected a straight rejection, but Laurent said, “I assume you’re aware of the legend of the Dicean lion?” 

Damen nodded. Every child in Akielos knew it. “But I wouldn’t consider it scary.” 

Laurent gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Tell it to me.” 

Damen cleared his throat. “The mountain valley of Dice was once inhabited by a lion, a child of Tuphoeus, a serpentine beast whose head brushed the stars, and Echidna, the she-viper. The kyros of Dice at the time, whose name has long since been forgotten, ordered the hero Alcaeus to bring him the skin of this monster. When Alcaeus arrived at mountain valley, he was received by a poor woman named Menodora. Menodora was almost about to give up her scant resources to offer up a sacrifice to beg the gods to ward against the lion, but Alcaeus managed to persuade her to wait for thirty days. Those days passed away, and Menodora was readying herself to make a sacrifice, but at the moment before she raised her knife over her white ram, Alcaeus arrived in triumph, the skin of the lion over his back.” 

“And how was the lion defeated?” Laurent had rested his chin on his hand. Damen hadn’t seen him look this attentive since he was pretending to be a slave. 

“Alcaeus had arrived at the den of the lion armed with a club and arrows. The arrows, shot from afar, bounced uselessly off the lion’s pelt; the club did the same. It was then that Alcaeus realized why no other hero before him had been able to kill the lion, for its skin was able to deflect any blow. There are actually two versions of how Alcaeus managed to defeat it: one was that he strangled the beast with his bare hands. Others say he shot arrows until one pierced the inside of his unarmoured mouth.” 

“So,” Laurent drawled. “Basically, the outside was impenetrable, and the inside was that of a normal lion.” He didn’t wait for Damen’s agreement. “Did it possess any kind of preternatural intelligence?” 

Damen shook his head. 

“Right. If Alcaeus strangled it, that means the lion’s trachea was crushed, or its airway was somehow compressed. About the same thing applies with the arrows. It would have either stabbed up through the palate and into the brain, down through the tongue and into the jaw, or down into the throat. Either way, anything but the fur could be damaged.” 

“You don’t have to go into every detail,” Damen said. “I am smart enough to understand how to kill a lion.” 

“I’m sure that’s exactly how smart you are,” Laurent agreed. “But I am not talking about killing a lion. I am talking about keeping one alive. Just because Alcaeus could not make it bleed, did not mean the club did not injure it internally.” Laurent started ticking effects off on his fingers. “Broken blood vessels just under the skin, shattered bones, ruptured organs, infection from all that with no place to go, etcetera.” 

“I’m not a doctor,” Damen said. “I’m not sure what you’re going for.” He tossed the stick into the fire.

Laurent spread his hands out expansively. “And that’s only thinking about the injuries inflicted by Alcaeus. What about living life as a lion? Kicks from wild goats and sheep, internal bleeding from attacking heroes or just regular human hunters…Excuse my bastardization of your mythos, but your greatest hero did that lion a mercy by killing it. No doubt that it was a wreck of a creature inside, hobbled together with splintered bones and spilling stomach acid.” 

Damen grimaced. “That’s really not the point of the story. Besides, it’s just that. A story. People who listen to stories don’t generally care about the exact anatomical anomalies of the monsters.” 

Laurent locked his fingers over his head and stretched luxuriantly. “I did,” he said. “In Vere, we have our own story of the lion. Yvain, a bold knight, once set out to slay a man-eating lion in order to woo the widower of a man he slew.”

“Must everything in your country be so damned complicated?” Damen complained, yawning.

“Upon reaching the lion’s den, Yvain realized the creature was injured. Instead of using his sword to kill, he used it to lever a great thorn out of the pad of the lion’s paw. No longer maddened by pain, the lion returned to hunting its normal game.”

“Lions aren’t native fauna to Vere, are they?” Damen said. “Once a beast has had a taste of human flesh, they never stop. They have to be killed.”

Laurent ignored this as well. “Along the course of his adventures, Yvain was imprisoned by a warlord. Incidentally, it was for helping a fugitive slave.” 

“That’s convenient.” 

“Yvain was thrown into a lion pit to be torn apart in front of a crowd of spectators. But just as he was on the verge of despair, the lion curled around his feet. When Yvain looked at the animal’s paw, there was a scar from where he had removed the thorn. For this display, the warlord pardoned Yvain, and the citizens celebrated and titled him ‘ _Le médecin du lion_.’” Laurent pulled his legs up to his chest, like he had done the night before. “I’ll take first watch.” 

Damen awoke to the sensation of something digging into his stomach and the sound of voices. Multiple voices. He opened his eyes. The light temporarily blinded him; Laurent had gone another night without sleep. 

Laurent’s heel was digging into his side. Damen followed the curve of his leg up through his spine, taking in the defensive posture, the knife hilt balanced in his hand. The way he was facing away from Damen. 

“I told you not to move.” Laurent’s voice filtered through the fog of sleep. Akielon. Hostile. 

The next speaker was unfamiliar. “Why would we move when we’re right where we want to be?” More Akielon. Wheedling. Condescending. Obviously hadn’t met Laurent before. 

Another said, “Calm down, sweetheart. Drop the knife before you hurt yourself.” 

Maybe they were here for him. Nikandros would have sent out search parties by now, this could be one of them. But he wouldn’t want them to actually harm Laurent, annoying as he was. Or they were just brigands with a shit choice in targets. If they were thieves, revealing his true identity was an even worse idea than revealing it to Laurent. 

Laurent’s foot dug further into Damen’s abdomen. “If I slit my wrists, would I fetch as good a bounty, or is it half-off for damaged goods?” 

One of the strangers laughed. “You have a tongue on you, boy. If that was cut out, I’m sure your master would pay us double for services rendered.”

He had been wrong on both points; these must be the fugitive slave hunters. 

“Well, someone opened his eyes,” said the first speaker. “That one has his collar. Ketos, is Pyotr’s place still accepting gold?” 

Laurent very slowly removed his heel from Damen’s side. “Nice of you to join us,” he said. 

“I’ve missed a lot, have I?” Damen said, wondering if he could sit up without getting his throat cut. Most of his experience said that being on the ground in a fight was a death sentence; there was no advice for if you started there. 

And then the third hunter arrived, emerging from the woods to Laurent’s back, sword leveled. He padded almost silently on the mossy ground until the point pressed into the dip of Laurent’s spine. “Drop it.”

Damen felt a bit like a rug. No one seemed to be paying him any mind. 

Laurent let the knife fall, then raised his hands in surrender. 

The blade stuck into the dirt, then tipped over, so the hilt was inches away from Damen’s fingers. He moved his hand forward in aching centimeters until he could grasp the pummel, the metal warm and damp with Laurent’s sweat. 

“You don’t belong out here in the woods, honey,” the second man said. “Just come with us and we'll get you back home, all safe and sound.” From this angle, Damen couldn’t see the speaker’s face, but he saw a pair of sensible black boots shuffle forward, one calloused hand wrap around Laurent’s hip while the other pushed up his undershirt and spread dirt-encrusted fingers across the flat expanse of Laurent’s stomach. Both hands were occupied; if he had any weapons, he wasn’t using them now. 

Damen reached up and pushed Laurent forward, sending him into a stumbling fall forward that ended with him and the second man in a pile on the ground, well out of the range of the third man’s sword. At the same time, he brought the dagger round and stabbed into the meat of the third man’s thigh, just above the knee. 

The third man fell back, clutching his leg and screaming. Damen grabbed his abandoned sword and leapt to his feet, only to find the first man aiming a crossbow at Damen’s heart. He had no hope, from this range, of cutting down an archer before an arrow could be fired. He dropped the sword. 

From the corner of his eye, he could see Laurent rolling around in the dirt with the second man. He was giving it a good attempt for someone with no chance, but not only were all Akielon man familiar with at least the rudiments of wrestling, but he was at least two times bigger than Laurent, almost as big as Damen himself. 

Laurent dug his teeth into the man’s arm, only to receive a sharp punch to the gut. He let go with a gasp, blood staining his lips red and his teeth pink, and the second man grabbed his wrists and pinned them together in one hand. 

“Put your hands behind your head and kneel,” the first told Damen. 

Damen obeyed, keeping his eyes on the tip of the arrow. There was no tremble, no hesitation. This was a professional, and he had no room to tell them they were making a mistake. 

“What should we do with Renus?” he asked. 

The second man was looking at Laurent’s bite. “Damn, this bitch,” he muttered. “Wait.” With one hand, he began to tug the silver laces out from the side of Laurent’s shirt until it hung open, revealing as much skin as a chiton would. Then he bit the lace, ripping it in half. With one part, he tied Laurent’s wrists together, the thin string digging into his skin, then moved down and wrapped the other half around Laurent’s calves. 

The second man hoisted himself to his feet, kicked Laurent’s side like an afterthought, then grabbed the sword and held it to Damen’s throat. “Don’t move,” he ordered, then to the first man, “Shoot him.” 

Damen, who had braved death many times but had never considered an innocuous execution by thugs in the woods, did not blink, did not breathe, but faced the staring point of the arrowhead with a strange sense of incredulity. 

The crossbow jerked to the side, there was a visceral and meaty thunk, and the third man’s screaming moans stopped. Damen had no time to process this before the second man brought the sword around and hit Damen’s temple with the hilt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings**   
> 
> 
>   * Huge warning for torture in this chapter. Not easily skippable. Best way is to Cntrl+F to [They disappeared behind the same door] and start from there. I think most plot pertinent info can be gleaned from context later.  
> 
>   * (I may have told some of you who asked for detailed warnings in the last chapter that there was a rape scene in this chapter. I cut that).  
> 
>   * The Regent—appears. Canon-typical existence.  
> 
>   * Panic attacks—Laurent has several, and Damen’s ill-equipped to handle it. 
>   * Abuse—Damen gets angry, and is bad at handling that as well. While he is not physically abusive, it was written to be reminiscent of a physically abusive relationship. 
>   * Dubcon—Laurent attempts to seduce Damen; Damen does not go through with it.  
> 
>   * Discussion of child abuse/Veretian pet system/incest—Laurent divulges some of his past to Damen. 
> 

> 
> Again, hit me up at [naniare@tumblr](http://naniare.tumblr.com) if you need more detailed warnings/want a summary of something you had to skip, want to say hello, etcetera.

Damen broke into a bleary consciousness like a shellfish diver resurfacing. It was disconcerting, waking up and realizing that he wasn’t in his own bed; that he wasn’t in a bed at all. The world spun and reorientated itself. He was standing up, or leaning against something, a wall maybe, but his limbs were splayed out like he was laying flat. His forehead throbbed; his shoulders felt odd and weightless, like something was missing. 

He had been knocked out in sporting events before, and Nikandros—if it was really bad, sometimes even his father—would always be at his bedside, ready to explain what had happened and how dumb he had been. But he couldn’t remember any event, or even the planning for one. His most recent memory was of being on horseback, riding alone through a dark forest. No, not alone, there was another man riding in front of him, a teasing smile on his face. 

Somewhere close to him, he could hear someone talking, but the words seemed liked gibberish, wobbling in and out of coherency. Damen forced himself to open his eyes. 

He wasn’t leaning against a wall, but on some type of diagonal cross, where his arms and legs were spreadeagled and tied to each protruding pole. His head had been leaning against his arm, and when he pulled himself up, his neck ached. 

In front of the saltire sat Laurent, still talking nonsense. He was sitting comfortably in a wooden chair, looking pissed off at Damen’s lack of response. Damen thought this unfair, considering he was the one trussed up for flagellation. 

“Laurent,” Damen interrupted. “Release me.” He tugged ineffectively at his bonds. 

Laurent's mouth snapped shut, and he considered Damen for an annoying minute. Eventually, he said, every syllable carefully enunciated, some more nonsense. Then he took a breath and said something sensible. “Damen, do you understand the situation we’re in?” 

Damen realized Laurent must have been speaking Veretian, at first, but his head hurt far too much to parse through the labyrinthine language. “If you’re not going to let me go,” Damen said, “You could at least give me some water.” His mouth was a desert; his temple throbbed. 

Laurent's smile was thin. “As fitting as I think your situation is, I am on a schedule.” Something was off about his posture, but Damen couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, it made Laurent's words seem much more severe. “Surely you realize I could have found a more felicitous time to dispense karma?”

Damen shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. His brain felt like it wanted to break through his skull, or like maybe it already had. “Laurent,” he said, “What’s—” It was then that he noticed the river of red-brown that traced its way down Laurent's forehead and matted his hair, the thick rope that circled his ankles and presumably, his wrists, though his arms were pulled behind the chair and Damen couldn’t see them. 

Laurent watched coolly as Damen tried to wrench his arms out of his restraints. “I see you’re beginning to understand,” he said, “When you’re done with the hysterics, I’ll try and give you some information that your thick skull undoubtedly blocked the first time.” 

“Laurent,” Damen said urgently, “What happened here? What’s—”

“Will you calm down?” Laurent snapped. “I’ve been watching you snore for an hour, and I’d really like to get moving as soon as possible.” 

“Get moving, huh?” said a voice from somewhere behind Damen. “And how do you plan on going about that?” Damen watched as Laurent forced himself not to react, which was almost more painful than Damen’s own straining muscles. A merchant had once gifted Damen with a small clockwork doll that, if you twisted a key on its back, would achingly bring an arm up in a salute and open and close its mouth, joints creaking, and Laurent now gave him an almost visceral reminder of the little toy soldier’s halting movements. 

“Welcome back,” Laurent said, “I have been lonely without you.” 

Damen heard the click-click-clicking of heels on stone, and then a tall, thin man was standing next to Laurent, tracing Laurent's jaw with one finger, then grabbed hold of his chin and forced him to look up. “I bet you have, sweetheart.” He glanced back at Damen. “Your little lover doesn’t seem like the most interesting conversationalist.” 

“He has his moments,” Laurent said. 

“Was he supposed to be your bodyguard?” the man dropped Laurent's chin and turned to stand in front of Damen, looking at him appraisingly. “It can’t be that you wanted to make sure you could get your ass stuffed on your way.” He smiled at Damen. “I’m sure a pretty face like yours could get the gods down from heaven for just a taste of your lips.” 

“Thank you,” Laurent said, seriously, “But I’m afraid I don’t have a surplus of applicants.” He paused, considering. “Though I was always told as a child to keep out of the sun. I thought I was being protected from sunburn, not divine ravishment.”

The man laughed, and turned back to Laurent. “You really do have a sharp tongue, for a slave. I’m surprised your master wants you back.” 

Laurent said, “In that case, why don't you just release me?” but he was focusing on something over the man’s shoulder. 

Damen tried to mouth another question to Laurent, who steadfastly ignored him. He tried again, speaking in Veretian he wasn’t all sure was correct; something about the grammar felt off, like he was piecing the sentence together word by word. Laurent still didn’t respond. 

“Shut him up,” the man said. And then there was a hand in Damen’s hair, jerking his head back, and a thick cloth was stuffed into his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He hadn’t even heard the other person approaching; maybe his head wasn’t as clear as he thought. The person behind him let go of the gag, and Damen’s head fell forward like a child’s ragdoll. 

Laurent hadn’t reacted, but his eyes were still on the stranger behind Damen. 

“I wouldn’t have to do this if you just gave in,” the first man said, conversationally. He was looking at the stranger as well. A prickle of not-quite-fear—anticipation, maybe?—ran up Damen’s spine. 

“Very tempting,” Laurent said, “But you don’t have me in a sharing mood. By the by, I seem to have lost a few moments after your,” his mouth pulled downward, a sign of slight annoyance, like his fruit plate contained more honey-melon than strawberries, “contingent came to greet us. You wouldn’t know whose slave he was, would you?” 

“Whose slave he _is_ ,” the first man corrected. “And I’m far more interested in you, sweetheart,” and stroked his golden hair. Damen strained against the bindings again, but succeeded only in rocking the saltire, prompting a new wave a dizziness to wash over him. 

“I’m just saying,” and Damen heard a shade more annoyance enter Laurent's voice, “that you may need to reconsider the effectiveness of that _thing_.” Laurent relaxed as much as he could while bound to a chair; remarkably, he found something in his posture to untense, and he looked more debonair than disheveled. “Because you obviously haven’t done your research; there’s one on his master’s bedside table. And if you don’t even know that much about us, it forces me to conclude that this little organization is tragically incompetent.” He let out one of those short, humorless laughs that, had he been in a position of power, would have necessitated a rescue for the ambassadors, merchants, kyroi, councillors, or whatever other unfortunates that had managed to provoke Laurent's wrath. “I almost feel sorry for you; a game isn’t fun unless the black team has some type of skill to make up for the first move advant—” 

The first man slapped Laurent across the cheek, so hard Damen could hear Laurent's face hitting the chair. By his ear, the stranger chuckled. 

Laurent slowly turned his head back to face the first man, pursed his lips in the shape of a kiss, and spat blood into his face. The man wiped it off with the back of his hand, and when he turned back to Damen, he could see a smear of red across his cheek, like a poorly applied rouge. 

“Well,” said the man, “Take off his shirt.” 

The man behind Damen set something on the ground beside the cross. Damen’s eyes naturally followed the movement. It was a lash, black leather, and all too familiar. His eyes went to Laurent's, who remained as impassive as ever. Damen forced himself to relax as the man behind him took a knife and cut through his shirt, revealing the contours of his muscled back, smooth besides the occasional dark bruise or peeling scab from his earlier fall. 

Cold air hit his skin, and Damen realized how light his neck felt; they must have removed his collar. 

As the first man stepped around to examine Damen’s back for himself, Damen tried to catch Laurent’s eye. Laurent didn’t look at him. 

One of the men behind him laughed, and used a finger to trace a path down his spine. One nail picked absently at a scab. The first man said, “Bruises aren’t even in the same class, my dear, but it’s sweet that you think they could be. Have you never had rough treatment in all of your pampered life? It makes me wish I was born a fucktoy.” 

Laurent laughed. “And you can’t tell the difference between a bruise from a fall and one from a punch. It makes me wish I was born sellsword scum. Those are from our escape, you fool. I’m talking about his master, Lord Philokrates. Look at his chest. Those aren’t recent, nor natural. He can’t leave too many scars, of course, that would decrease his value. But if you think he’s going to give in from a few measly lashes…”

“Like what?” the second man asked, sounding genuinely curious about Philokrates’ sexual preferences.

Laurent made a weird sort of aborted shrug, which told Damen his hands were probably tied quite tightly to something, as well as to each other. “It’s nothing to do with me. I fucked his daughter.” 

The whip was picked up again, and Laurent finally made eye contact with Damen. When the first searing pain made its way across Damen’s back, reopening the old scabs and tearing through twisted muscle, he bit down on the gag, kept his eyes on Laurent, and did not make a sound. Did his best not even to twitch. 

Damen counted five lashes before the first man called it off. 

“Damen,” Laurent said, “I hope you don’t run off with whatever man gives you a masochistic outlet,” and rewarded him with a half smile. 

Damen made what he hoped was a reassuring noise from behind the gag and rolled his eyes. 

The first man hummed. “The bitch managed to force a truth out of those pretty lips. I suppose this calls for a more direct approach. Linos, if you would.” 

The second man—Linos, Damen guessed—walked behind Laurent and began fumbling with a rope, lacing it through a hook attached to the low ceiling and then fiddling with it around where Laurent's hands should be. Damen’s fevered mind made a connection, and he strained so hard against his bonds he can hear the wooden beams above him groan, and he almost choked in his desperation to force the gag out with his tongue. 

Laurent shut his eyes, and allowed himself a small, almost inaudible grunt of pain as Linos tugged on the rope. Damen had heard of strappado before—it was a favorite for some of the ancient generals in Damen’s old military scrolls. The victim’s hands were bound behind their back and then suspended from a rope, dislocating their shoulders. Sometimes weights were added until the arms broke. But Laurent was still manacled to the chair, so he bent himself near in half until his arms made a perpendicular line, pointing up ninety degrees. 

Damen took small comfort in the fact that he hadn’t heard the crack of dislocating bones.

The first man said, “That’s a good look on you. Linos, give me the fork.”

Linos presented the man with a kind of leather collar, and then grabbed Laurent's chin and yanked his head back. The pale expanse of Laurent's neck was exposed, and the man knelt in front of him, a perverted tableau of a proposal. He ripped through the linen of Laurent's undershirt, exposing the skin of his neck and sternum, then leaned forward to fasten the collar around Laurent's neck, tight enough to pinch the skin. But that wasn’t what scared Damen; when the man leant back, a self-satisfied smile on his face, Damen could see that where the tag would be if Laurent was a dog, instead of a prisoner, there was a double-pronged iron fork, two sharp points digging into the skin just above the collarbone, and two more into the soft, vulnerable skin a little behind his chin. 

The setup forced Laurent to keep his head strained back, even when Linos released his grip, lest he impale himself on the fork. 

“I don’t wish to presume how practiced you are,” Laurent said, so quietly Damen had to strain to hear his voice, even in the otherwise silent room. With each miniscule movement of his jaw, the prongs dug a little into his skin. “But this is not the kind of incentive I meant.” Laurent swallowed, and Damen can see the leather collar press against his Adam’s apple, and could only imagine the brief moment of suffocation before Laurent continued, “There are easier ways to do this. Some that save time and equipment.” Blood trickled down his neck and disappeared behind the tatters of his shirt. 

The man sighed, and ran his hand through Laurent's golden hair. “And I chose this specifically so it would shut you up.” His hand traveled down, brushed Laurent's cheek with his thumb. “But don’t worry your pretty little head too much, sweetheart, I’ll give you your incentive soon. I just want to have a little bit of fun first.” 

He stayed kneeling in front of Laurent, putting his hands on Laurent's knees and rubbing small circles into his inner thighs. Laurent instinctively tried to look down at him, then jerked his head back up and stared at the ceiling as the two spikes dug into his throat. 

“I never could afford a bed slave of my own,” the man whispered, “But you’re just as pretty as they say.” He thrust the heel of his right hand up into Laurent's chin, so his head snapped back with an audible crack. From there the man examined the two deep holes already gouged into the thin, pale skin; he dug his thumb into one and watched as blood trickled into the crevice between his finger and nail, and then formed a small stream that ran down his arm and pooled into the hollow of his elbow. “Would you like some water? Or maybe some wine. Lenos, fetch me our finest wine.” 

Lenos walked behind Damen, and he heard the distinctive creaking of a wooden door. He came back with a half-empty bottle, which he handed to the man. “From my own personal stash.” 

The man read the label, then pulled out the cork and sniffed it critically. “Lenos, this is no better than vinegar.” 

Lenos gave a small smile. “It is called _posca_ , sir. It is supposed to be a Vaskian delicacy.” 

Damen kept his eyes on the pantomime as Lenos started listing ingredients. The man had moved down from Laurent’s chin, and had resumed running his hands up and down Laurent’s thighs. 

“Doesn’t that sound…bracing,” the man said. He stood up, bending to retrieve the bottle. “And you only have to do one little thing to get a sip. Just tell me where you thought you were going.” 

Laurent eyed the bottle. “I don’t drink,” he said. 

The man set the bottle down between Laurent’s feet, like it was a graceful concession. When he stood back up, he laced one hand in Laurent’s golden hair. His other hand went to his belt, and reached in to pull out what was concealed there. “Perhaps you prefer a different taste.” 

Laurent said, “I usually know a man’s name before I drink with him.” 

The man smiled. “You think fast, love. Call me Aniketos, if you get the chance.” He pressed the palm of his left hand to Laurent’s forehead and pushed his head back. His other hand pressed the rim of the bottle of posca to Laurent’s pink lips, but he hesitated. “One more time,” he said. “Who helped you escape?”

Laurent didn’t answer. A drop of sour wine briefly clung to the bottle’s rim before rolling down his chin. 

“Where are the rest of the slaves?” 

“I suggest,” Laurent said, each word as deliberate and solid as a savant opening the game by moving the pawn in front of his king forward two spaces, the marble piece thudding down onto the obsidian square, “You take a look up your own ass.” 

Aniketos thrust the neck of the bottle down Laurent’s throat with such force that Damen could hear the glass scrape against Laurent’s teeth. Laurent choked, his whole body convulsing with the force of it. His position was such that he could not move his head away, or even—had he wanted to—swallow. Aniketos forced the bottle further and further into Laurent’s mouth, occasionally threading his hands through Laurent’s hair to anchor himself. And despite Laurent’s attempts to keep his head still, with each of Aniketos’ movements, the fork dug a little deeper into his skin. It wasn’t until the bottle was empty, and more wine was pouring out of Laurent’s mouth than into it, that Aniketos pulled it away. 

Laurent made the slight, choking cough that Damen recognized from his father’s illness, of someone too tired to move. Wine dribbled from the corner of Laurent’s mouth, and his shoulder twitched, like an instinctive move to wipe his face. 

Damen almost relaxed when Aniketos sat back on his haunches to watch Laurent struggle for breath, but the respite barely lasted two seconds. In a single, languid motion, Aniketos broke the bottom of the wine bottle off against the edge of the chair, gripped the neck of the bottle like it was the hilt of a dagger, and thrust it into Laurent’s side, digging and twisted the shards into his abdomen. 

Laurent let out a small, gurgling gasp that hurt Damen more than a scream would have. 

Aniketos leant in, pressing the glass deeper into Laurent’s skin, and whispering in a voice that still carried in the quiet room, broken only by Laurent’s ragged breathing, said, “You understand now, boy, that I don’t give a damn if your pretty little body is marked up or not. I don’t give a damn if you live or die. What’s one more missing fucktoy? What I want,” and now each of his words were punctuated with a sharp twist of the bottle, “Is to find out where you were going, round up a few of the runaways, and collect my reward. And if you don’t want to tell, I’ll cut you here—” He traced the smooth skin just under Laurent’s jaw, “—and here—” His hand moved down to where Laurent’s neck met his shoulders, “And keep that cute throat as a souvenir.” 

He pulled the bottle away roughly and at an angle, so some of the glass broke off into splinters. “If that hurt, darling, take a moment to think about all the other places I can still stick that.” Aniketos stood up with a grunt. “Come on, Lenos, I’ve worked up an appetite.” 

Lenos unfastened the collar around Laurent’s neck and reached around to grab the spike. As he pulled it from the underside of Laurent’s chin, it momentarily dug deeper into his sternum; when he removed it completely, Damen could see both sides had a coating of dark red blood. 

They disappeared behind the same door Lenos had fetched the wine from. 

Laurent wasn’t reacting. His head hung low, like he didn’t have the strength to keep himself upright, his blond hair curtaining his face. His breathing came in short and sharp. 

Damen decided to count to fifty before trying to make any kind of noise from behind the gag. It would give them both time to calm down, and let the pair get some distance away. But Laurent’s breathing had slowed to something approaching normal by twenty, and he jerked upright at thirty. 

Ignoring Damen’s increasingly frantic mumbles, Laurent lifted his knees like he was trying to tread through treacle, until the back heel of one boot caught on the rope and got pushed back, revealing one stockinged foot which, now angled toe-down and uninhibited by the thickness of the leather shoe, slipped through the loop of rope. He did the same with his other foot, then laced his ankles around the chair’s wooden legs and scooched it forward until his arms, still suspended high in the strappado, were at a less extreme angle. 

Both legs now free, Laurent tried to lift his foot high enough to rest on the seat of the chair, but either due to the slight tremble in his calves or the lack of traction provided by the stocking, he couldn’t seem to gain purchase. He swore and tried again, a little quicker as if he could trick the chair into giving him some traction by not giving it time to push him away. But his heel knocked against the side of the chair, briefly unbalancing it; if Laurent hadn’t righted it immediately, he would have fallen off, and the unyielding strappado would have snapped his joints clean off.

Apparently realizing this as well, Laurent abandoned that method, flexed his wrists, grasped the rope just above the knot between his hands until his knuckles turned white, and attempted to lift himself up. Damen must not have been able to hold back the sound of concerned surprise that translated to an incredulous grunt through the gag, because Laurent let go from his half-inch shuddering hover with a relieved gasp, glared at Damen, and hissed, “Would you shut up? This isn’t as easy as it looks.” 

It took him five tries to lift himself far enough to get into a half crouch on the seat of the chair. He almost unbalanced again as he stood slowly up, legs trembling with fear and exertion, and Damen was honestly afraid that he would be too tired to realize what was happening and right himself before he fell. But Laurent didn’t disappoint. Soon he was upright, arms held straight behind him at a relatively relaxed angle, and his feet were braced sturdily, one against the back of the chair and one at the front. 

Damen couldn’t really see what Laurent was doing—it involved a lot of twisting about and wiggling his arm in ways that Damen couldn’t justify—so instead he listened for the sound of the door opening, tried to breathe, and wondered what the hell he would do if anyone came in. 

A muted sound of triumph brought his attention back to Laurent. His right hand was free, and with that, Laurent turned around on the chair so he wasn’t working backwards, and released his left in short order. A little gingerly, he stepped off the chair, slipped into discarded shoes, and walked to stand in front of Damen, glass crunching under his feet. 

“Let’s be quick,” he said. “You have two options here. The first is a variant of your original plan: I leave you here. You don’t actually know anything about what I’m doing, so no amount of torture will get it out of you. And without a backup, they probably won’t actually kill you. They’ll deliver you home, try to explain the wounds using your escape, or some flimsy resistance you put up, and you’ll be relatively safe. This is the fastest way back. Or, I can release you now, and you can attempt to accompany me on a dashing escapade through unfamiliar land until either one of us finds help, or a trail of some sort, or we are both captured and killed by irate bandits that, need I mention, _your_ side hired.” He stepped up onto the base of the saltaire, used one hand to wrap around an arm of the cross to balance himself, then reached forward and undid Damen’s gag. 

Laurent stepped back just as Damen spit out the cloth. 

“How do you—” 

“No,” Laurent snapped. “No time. Stay or go?” 

Damen thought this was a bit unfair, considering the time it had taken Laurent to escape and soliloquize. “Let’s go.” 

Laurent graced Damen with a small smile, lifted up the hem of his undershirt, and traced his finger around the folded over and sewn in edge until he found what he was looking for. Then he ripped out the stitching with his thumbnail and procured a small razor blade. 

Damen was quietly impressed. Laurent was efficient; he sawed through the rope so quickly that when the fraying strands gave way, Damen ended up with a straight cut from the lowest joint of his thumb to just under his wrist that yielded a few thick drops of blood that twisted down his arm and coalesced in the crease of his elbow. Laurent frowned, used Damen’s arm to wipe the blood off the razor, and then pressed it into Damen’s open palm. 

“I’ll do your feet,” he said, and ducked down. 

Damen stretched as soon as he was free, then groaned as aching muscles realized they were no longer confined to the same outstretched position, coagulating blood broke into peeling scabs, and the five long slashes across his back reopened, reminding Damen of torn muscle and over-bruised skin. 

“Are you done?” Laurent asked, a sour note in his voice. “I don’t mean to rush your recovery, but how long can a lunch break last?” He had picked up the broken bottle, and was holding it at his side like a short sword. Damen had a brief vision of Laurent executing a perfect lunge, right foot kicking forward, left leg pushing his body, his shoulders totally relaxed, all the power flowing from the triceps down to the fingers. And at the end of his outstretched arm, instead of the graceful silver épée, a dirty old broken bottle of posca, the label peeling off, Laurent’s blood still staining the points of glass in some places. 

Damen looked him up and down. “Do you happen to have a sword hidden under all those layers?” he asked. “Perhaps a knife?” 

“Oh, how could I forget the crossbow I shoved down my pants and the arrows in my shoe?” Laurent sneered. “Thanks for reminding me. _No_ , I don’t have a knife. Find your own damn weapon.” 

Tetchy. He didn’t have much time to think about improvisation; Laurent was already heading towards the door, he didn’t think he had it in him right now for hand-to-hand combat, and the room itself was barren. Laurent’s chair, a few abandoned cords of rope, and Damen’s cross—a cross, which on a second glance, revealed itself to be surprisingly shoddy. It looked like two pieces of plywood hastily nailed together. He made a split-second decision, braced his knee against one side of the saltaire, and tore off a plank. Pleased to see that some of the nails had come away with it, he leant it against a wall and snapped off a little over half the plank, leaving the end a ragged mass of splinters with a few twisted nails studding one side. 

He turned to catch up with Laurent, happy with his creation, only to see Laurent was standing wide-eyed in the doorframe. 

“Are you alright?” Damen asked. 

Laurent shook himself. “Right. Yes. Fine. Let’s go.” He opened the door, revealing a long stone hallway. “Right or left?”

“Right.”

Laurent turned left. 

Damen, trotting behind Laurent with the plywood balancing on one shoulder, felt a lot like those caricatures of Vaskian clansmen found in old anthropology scrolls, all burly unwashed muscle, dragging clubs and looking generally threatening behind their female counterparts, who were uniformly gorgeous, dressed like slaves who only had access to lion skins, and could probably rip a man’s nose off with their teeth. 

Damen tried not to imagine Laurent biting anyone’s nose off, and decided to focus on his surroundings instead. Like the room, the hallway was made of smooth stone, but the occasional one had been smashed, leaving piles of rubble to trip around. Laurent ducked beneath the empty windows, glass crunching under his feet, but Damen stopped long enough to peer out of one to check that no one could see him, then cleared away some of the ivy crawling through and looked outside. 

The view was mostly green. Long, unkempt grass waved in a gentle breeze, and birds hopped and fluttered on the ground below the window, unaffected by his presence. Well, at least they were on the first floor. The outside walls were stone as well—this was clearly some abandoned fortress—though covered with overgrown moss and ivy. His eyes followed the path of the walls until they stopped at what must have been a little garden courtyard; lavender had almost conquered it, but little outposts of rosemary, hyssop, dill, and what looked like cucumbers held out. 

“Laurent,” Damen said, as quietly as he could. “Let’s just go out through here.” 

Laurent joined him at the window, and for a second Damen thought he was going to argue just for the sake of it, but he shrugged. Damen studied him; Laurent was looking a bit pale, maybe a little unsteady on his feet, but Damen was too. His head was still aching, and he probably had a concussion. Now wasn’t the time to be worrying about anyone’s health. He pushed himself onto the ledge, gallantly swept away some of the broken glass, and helped Laurent up. 

Laurent’s hand was small and starkly white against his own. Damen would have expected, if he had thought about it, that Laurent’s hands would be soft like the slave he had pretended to be, perhaps a little chafed from a week or two of kitchen labor. But they were as calloused as Damen’s, and his grip was strong. 

Damen's own wrists were red and bruised, but Laurent’s were raw, like the rope had sawed through several layers of skin. 

Laurent didn’t say thank you, but didn’t brush off Damen’s help either. This could be considered a victory. 

“Do you think we could find the horses?” Damen asked as he slid off the ledge and onto the grass. 

Laurent’s expression soured. Damen sighed. Clearly he was still upset about his horse. 

“I’m not sure if either of us are in a condition to ride,” Laurent said, falling into step behind Damen. “You may be walking like you’ve never ailed a day in your life now, but riding isn’t exactly easy on the back, you know. Besides, I’d rather avoid them if we can.”

“We could take them,” Damen said, hefting his club in demonstration. 

“We couldn’t the first time.”

Damen ignored this frankly unwarranted pessimism. “This architecture looks Patran to me, but I’ve never known them to abandon a castle like this.”

“Old Vaskian,” Laurent answered shortly. It was only at Damen’s inquiring look that he continued, “Before Patras annexed itself, the clanswomen were a lot more equiminable to things like roofs that don’t blow away in a stiff breeze. The tradition carries on in Skarva, where Empress Vishkar resides in the Imperial Palace. Over there you can just see the ruins of the harem where the male concubines would have resided, a feature that has been replaced in Patras with the Akielon-style slave gardens.”

As Laurent continued his lecture, Damen wondered what exactly his day job was. The escape-artism could be explained away with training from a particularly dedicated abolitionist militia. Same with the semi-fluency in Akielon and, presumably, Patran, or even just a life lived on the border. The level of horsemanship was too much to be waved away like that, but a lot of families owned horses these days, and it wasn’t hard to believe Laurent had been raised by a stable. But the socio-architectural history of Vask and Patras didn't fit into any grouping. 

In the distance, but not too far away, just visible behind the crumbling walls of the male harem Laurent had already moved on from, was a small Vaskian-style tarantass, of the kind used to ferry poorer passengers and their goats cross-country. Damen nudged Laurent and pointed. “Do you think we’re in a condition to ride that?”

Laurent smiled. “Let’s find some horses, shall we?”

The horses weren’t hard to find. Two fine black Friesian geldings were grazing in the overgrown fields. In unspoken agreement, Damen left Laurent to get them under harness while he inspected the carriage. 

He was barely close enough to be cringing at the dusty canvas siding or the just visible hints of straw padding the floor inside when he saw Linos leaning against a back wheel, tossing honeyed nuts into his mouth. 

Damen reacted without thinking, and brought his club up and around to hit Linos squarely on the top of the head before the man could open his mouth. Linos crumpled, and Damen came back to himself long enough to be thankful that the plank had landed nail-side up, and he could sling it back over his shoulder without having to pull nails out of a decimated skull. 

He turned at the sound of a scream, but it was more of rage than of fear, like the presumptive loser of a fencing match making one last rush at their opponent. Laurent was standing not too far from where Damen had left him, almost bent over backwards with the effort of keeping his attacker at bay. Aniketos towered over him, the knife in his right hand only prevented from plunging into Laurent’s shoulder by Laurent’s white-knuckled grip on his wrist. The bottle had fallen to the ground and shattered in Laurent’s instinctive reaction grab Aniketos. 

Damen shouted, “Laurent!” and started running. 

Aniketos looked round; Laurent did not. 

Laurent reached up with his left hand and grabbed the knife, cutting his fingers in the process, twisted around so his back was to Aniketos, and elbowed him in the stomach, all before the echoes of Damen’s call had faded away. Aniketos let go of the knife and stumbled back, clutching at his stomach. Laurent had the blade to his throat before Damen reached him. 

Damen heard him say, “Do you mind telling me and my partner here where we are? I’m sure I don’t even have to let you imagine where else this knife could go, not when it’s perfect right where it is.” 

Aniketos said, “Fuck you, whore,” and the motion of his throat cut a thin line of red across his jugular. 

Laurent sighed. “I should have known that torture never works,” and jerked the knife to the side, opening Aniketos’ throat. He turned to Damen as the man hit the ground. “I got you a knife,” he said. 

Damen very carefully took it from Laurent’s hand. “Try to be a little more forthright about your moral lessons next time, will you? If you’re too subtle, they won’t pick up on the hints.” 

Laurent was staring at the dead body. “I don’t think he’s going to be picking anything up,” he said, and went to get the horses. 

While Laurent hooked the two geldings to the carriage, Damen knelt by the prone body of Linos and checked his pulse. Alive. Damen linked his arms around the man’s armpits and dragged him out of the way, propping him up against one of the fortress walls. Laurent joined him, his bleeding hand wrapped around the bridle of the second horse. He frowned at Damen, then handed him the bridle. He bent down and brushed off the peanut crumbs that had been honey-glued to Linos’ shirt. “Was he eating?” Laurent asked. 

Not seeing the point, but a little nervous about this post-killing Laurent, Damen answered, “Yes.” 

Laurent pressed one finger to Linos’ lips, running the pad along his teeth. Then he pried Linos’ jaw open and brushed his fingers along Linos’ tongue and the insides of his cheeks, pushing out a few half-chewed peanuts out of his mouth and letting them fall to the ground. Laurent wiped the saliva off on Damen’s leg. The cut on his finger had left a smear of pinkening blood in the corner of Linos’ mouth. 

“He might have choked,” Laurent explained as he stood up. “Let’s go.” 

Damen grabbed Laurent’s arm. “You’re bleeding.” He hadn’t noticed it before, with Balios’ blood still staining the bottom of Laurent’s undershirt red-black, but he should have expected it. There was definitely new blood there, leaking fresh, bright red into the linen. He let go of the horse’s bridle and pulled Laurent’s shirt up, revealing a little circle of uneven gashes. To Damen’s eye, it looked almost like a bite from a very small but very vicious shark. “Go sit down. I’ll get him hooked up. You’re only making it worse by moving around.” He patted the horse’s withers and glared until Laurent gave up and hoisted himself into the back of the carriage. 

Damen found Laurent kneeling on the straw covered floor, rummaging through a pile of clothes. When Damen got in, Laurent turned, held a pretty blue gown up to his chest, and said, “There's a nefarious story behind this.” 

“Lay down, and you can invent scandals when you’re lucid,” Damen suggested.

Laurent was unusually compliant. He said nothing as he sat back and Damen pulled up his shirt to re-inspect the wound, and he only gave a sad sigh when Damen ripped through the remaining laces up the sides of his undershirt and used the few clean bits left to dab up the blood. It wasn’t really bleeding hard anymore, but Damen pressed each little cut and tried to feel if there was still glass embedded in Laurent’s skin. 

“Never killed anyone before?” Damen asked as he pried out a shard. It had a little bit of cloth stuck to it; it must have torn Laurent’s shirt on the way in. Damen wondered what the risks of infection were with him poking around in fresh injuries with his dirty fingers versus leaving the glass and linen in to fester. 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Laurent said, staring up at the ceiling. “Has anyone ever told you that your fingers are like very sharp sausages?” 

“No, strangely enough,” Damen said. His medical skill was limited to the basic field training that all soldiers got, but he did have a vague impression of people being less likely to faint if they were talking. “So, what do you do when you aren't disguising yourself as a woebegone slave, gallivanting through the woods, falling off mountains, giving abolitionist treatises, or getting tortured?”

“Isn’t that enough to occupy any man?” Laurent winced as Damen prodded a tender area towards his navel. “Well, something quite similar to you, I expect.”

Damen coughed to cover up an incredulous snort. “What makes you say that?”

“How many jobs give enough free time to do all that we’ve done?” Laurent said. “We could both be living off our parent’s good fortune, with a dilettante interest in, respectively, abolition and slavery. We could both be soldiers sent by our opposing governments to stop the other’s cause. If you give me some time I could think of some more.” 

“That’s alright,” Damen said. He dug around in the clothes pile until he found a chiton too small for him and too skimpy for Laurent. “But I think if you were a soldier, you would be less shaken about killing.”

“Killing a man face to face doesn't carry more emotional impact than slaughtering indiscriminately?”

Damen decided to ignore _slaughtering indiscriminately_ for now. “It doesn't if you don't let it. It doesn't change how dead they are.” He tore the cloth into strips, and wrapped the longest one around Laurent’s abdomen. “There.”

Laurent sat up. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly, and then, “Do you need anything for your back?”

“It’s fine for now.” Damen said this with more confidence than he felt. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was left aching and tired. The fire that had burned through every lash was fading to burning coal under his skin that flared up whenever he moved. But he wasn't bleeding, and the chances of infection were both slim and only stood to be increased without more professional care. He’d risk it. “Have you thought up anything suitably odious to explain the gown?” 

Laurent picked it back up and examined the faded blue wool, the slightly frayed hems, and the discreetly patched hole in the skirt. “I imagine,” he said slowly, “If I were sneaking away slaves to Vere, I would provide them with Veretian clothing somewhere after the halfway point of the journey, to allay suspicions. And I imagine that if I was a slaver returning a frightened slave to their master, knowing they have no means of reporting ill-treatment, and knowing slaves are not gifted with clothing as puritanical as this, I would relieve them of that clothing and sell it later. ” He let the gown slide from his fingers and picked up the tattered remains of the chiton. “And once I was in a mindset like that, I wouldn’t see any problem in robbing slaves who hadn’t gotten as far as halfway. As if taking their collars and cuffs didn’t bring in enough extra cash.” He sighed. 

“Laurent?” 

“I always knew I couldn’t guarantee their safety,” Laurent said, more to himself than at Damen’s prompt. “But…” He seemed to come out of some reverie, and tossed the chiton at Damen’s head. “I bet you that I’ll find food before you find something in your size.” 

Laurent did find food, including a few packets of dried meat and skins of water. It wasn’t a lot, but that gave Damen hope that they weren’t too far from civilization. Damen ended up settling for a pair of Veretian trousers that he could fit around his thighs but couldn’t lace up, and went back out to steal Linos’ tunic. Laurent managed to rustle up a decent outfit, with stockings, breeches, and something that looked like a corruption of a hunting frock. 

They sat together in the driver’s seat, and Damen tried again. “Laurent—” 

Laurent was looking past the outskirts of the dilapidated castle, into the woods. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking. We’ll have to risk riding, it’s not possible to drag a carriage through this underbrush.” 

“You’re still not thinking,” Damen said evenly. “If those thugs could do it, why can’t we? There’s definitely a path somewhere.” And indeed, the horses, unperturbed by their new handlers, lead them calmly along the perimeter of the castle until they reached an opening in the trees that revealed overgrown but well-used path. 

Laurent relaxed by subtle increments at Damen’s side, but it was only when they were well into the cool, protective darkness of the forest that Damen finally pressed the issue. 

“Are you really alright?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the horses’ backs. “I mean, what he did, that wasn’t…” 

“I’m fine,” Laurent said. “I’ve had worse.” 

“It’s just,” Damen said, not sure how to put the phrase together but positive he had to communicate this feeling, somehow. “I appreciate. What you did.” 

“Appreciate what?” Laurent quipped, “The view?” 

“No!” Damen protested. “I know…you lied about Philokrates’ sadism. You directed his attention away from me.” 

“Well, I didn’t want to see a brute like you break down in tears,” Laurent said. “It would have ruined my whole worldview.” 

“But what that man did—” 

“What that man almost forced on me was the exact same thing you would have forced on me, and have forced on who knows how many others.” Laurent spat out each word like poison. “An oversized Akielon cock. What does it matter who it belongs to? It was going to happen.” 

Damen forced himself to look beyond the vitriol and into Laurent’s eyes. “I would have never—” 

“Wouldn’t you? I don’t think I said, ‘Excuse me, Lord Aniketos, sir, but I’d prefer not to have a dick in my mouth today,’ did I? You wouldn’t have taken that silence as an enthusiastic, ‘Yes please?’” 

Damen’s grip tightened around the reins. “No. Not like that.” 

Laurent subsided. Softly, he repeated, “No. Not like that.” He brushed his bangs away from his eyes. “I…I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“No,” Damen said. “You’re right.” He paused. “While you…did anyone…?”

Laurent looked at him with clear blue eyes, as untroubled and calm as the sea that sent unsuspecting sailors to their graves. “I’m sure some ‘anyone’ did while I was.”

Damen thought about parsing this, then dismissed it in favor of strengthening his resolve. “While you were in Akielos. As a slave. Did anyone hurt you like that?” He wasn't sure what he’d do if Laurent said yes. 

“Is this the peculiar Akielon aversion to discussing sex, or is this your own affectation? It’s rape. The word is much nicer than what it describes.” The words were harsh, but his tone was matter-a-fact. 

“Rape,” Damen said. “Did anyone rape you in Akielos?” 

Laurent tilted his head, like a flirtatious country woman peeking out at Damen from over sheaves of wheat. “Do you count yourself?” 

“Laurent,” Damen said. He needed to know, more than he had ever needed to know anything, what had been done to Laurent while he was in Damen’s country. 

“No one wants to touch a defective slave,” Laurent said. “Not when they’re surrounded by pretty ones.” 

“Defective?” Damen repeated. 

Laurent tapped his bare cheek. “The scar. Drunk young men would try to entice me to perch on their knees, and recoil when I turned around. Why play lovers with someone who so obviously wasn’t pliant enough in the past? So no. I wasn’t raped in Akielos.” 

“What do you mean, not pliant in the past?” Damen asked, even though he had a sinking feeling that he knew. 

Laurent smiled, a little sadly. “This is what gave you away, Damen. Any slave—and for that matter, any master with an inkling of the dark side of ‘perfect submission for perfect treatment’—knows that if submission doesn’t meet that standard, neither will the treatment.”

“I have heard of no such abuse,” Damen said. 

“And who would tell you?” Laurent sighed. “I’m not telling you to change anything. I just want you, for once in your life, to use your head.”

“You are like the opposite of a Dicean lion,” Damen suggested after a quiet minute. “No matter how hurt you are on the outside, you are never affected within.”

Laurent snorted. It was a strange sound, coming from him. “Is that what you think?”

Damen looked at him. Laurent was staring ahead, watching the horses’ gentle trot, sitting straight backed and proper despite the pain his side must have been causing him. He looked disheveled, yes, with a mélange of ill-fitting clothing, unwashed and unbrushed hair, and a dark bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek. While he retained the foundations of his beauty, they were so obscured by circumstance that Damen wouldn’t have given him a second glance if he saw him on the streets of Ios. And like Damen’s thoughts of him as the antipodal lion, it was rare that he moved to harm someone physically, but the wounds he inflicted were never just skin-deep. Where the Dicean lion could rip a man apart but never dampen his spirit, Laurent could tear into a soul without leaving a single scar. 

But then he turned and graced Damen with a rare smile, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Where do you think this road will take us?” 

Damen hummed, considering. “I assume the outskirts of Patras. Possible a village we could refortify ourselves in.”

“And then onward to Akielos, I suppose.” Laurent sighed. “Will you wait until we're in your jurisdiction to arrest me, or should I find some rope and get it over with?”

Damen laughed. “Why waste the rope, when I know you can just slip out of it on a whim? What was your plan if they had used chains?”

“They shot their compatriot for having the audacity to get stabbed,” Laurent scoffed. “It wouldn’t have been too difficult to turn them against each other.”

“You’re devious,” Damen said. 

“It has been said.” 

“What will you do, once you return home?” Damen asked. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Laurent said. “We are not yet out of the woods.”

Damen gestured around them with a smile. “But we literally are.” It was disheartening, how quickly the scenery had transformed from dense foliage to open countryside. Laurent said that it felt like the bounty hunters had taken them a long way, but Damen couldn't shake the feeling that they had been wandering around on the very edge of civilization for days. 

As Damen’s hand outlined the horizon, Laurent reacted like he hadn’t been at all aware of their surroundings, and hissed, “Pull over.” 

Damen wrenched so hard on the reins the horses reared back in protest. “What’s wrong?” 

Laurent swung himself off the driver’s seat and dove into the back of the carriage. “Wait there,” he called. 

Five minutes later, he stepped out, considerably more refined than he had gone in. Damen stared. 

Laurent was wearing the simple ensemble favored by Veretian country women. The blue gown, with its open front laced over a heavy linen kirtle, must have hidden some kind of pad or hoop under the skirt, because it contained enough natural shape that it hid Laurent’s lack of curves, and the black partlet with its flared collars gave the illusion of a bust. His short hair was covered by a shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed straw hat that left only his bangs and a few stray wisps of hair peeking out, so the casual observer would assume there was a hidden coif. 

He smiled demurely at Damen, stretched out his arms, and gave a little twirl before stepping back onto the driver’s seat. “Do not look so aghast, husband,” Laurent said, voice soft, “It is if you have never seen me, your beloved wife, before today. Does it not suit me?” He was talking in Patran, his accent lilting the consonants and adding extra vowels. 

“Laurent—” 

Laurent frowned. “Who is that? Are you feeling ill?” He pressed a gentle hand to Damen’s forehead. “My name is Lauryn, darling.” 

Damen couldn't stop himself. He broke out into helpless laughter, doubling over with the force of it. A swift kick to his ankle told Damen that Laurent hadn’t been able to find a more feminine pair of shoes, but the thought of Laurent’s clunky leather gaiters peeking out from under the hem of that dress brought tears to his eyes. 

Laurent waited impatiently for Damen to recover, then said, “If you are quite done, would you help me with these laces?” He gestured vaguely to his midriff, where the bodice was half open. 

Damen took the ends of the laces and pulled them tight. Laurent gasped as his breath left him, and took a step closer, so he was near flush with Damen. “You could do this yourself,” Damen said, threading a black cord through an eyelet on the longside of the bodice. 

Laurent’s voice was a bit strained when he said, “This is more romantic; it’s building the anticipation to unlacing them tonight. You’ll appreciate it all the more when you know how much work was put into it.” He leant over Damen, so that his lips brushed his cheek. “After all, we are newlyweds, having just survived the most ill-advised honeymoon since Queen Yseult let her consort near a brothel, and we are ever so weary and hoping some kind person would spare us a fire and directions to Akielos, where my husband’s family resides.”

Damen pulled the bodice laces tighter. “This seems unnecessarily complicated.”

Laurent tried to move away, but the laces only constricted. He settled for bracing a hand against Damen’s shoulder. “I do not personally have a great desire to be recognized by name here, but perhaps you have less cause for concern than me. If anyone is looking for a tall, dark stranger, perhaps a soldier, perhaps going by the name of ‘Damen,’ or something of that ilk, perhaps traveling with a blond man, then it will only make that task more difficult if I give the appearance of a woman. But if you want to be found, then I will of course change back.” 

Damen thought about the call Nikandros had undoubtedly set up by now. He thought about the political repercussions that could result if the Akielon crown prince was identified wandering around Patras without the knowledge nor the consent of King Torgeir. He thought about Torgeir’s strengthening relationships with Vere and the strain that it put on Akielos. Damen thought the chances of Laurent being recognized by Patran guards were slim; at least much slimmer than the chances of Damen being recognized, and with less repercussions. But this might work too. He finished tying Laurent’s bodice. 

Laurent smiled and sat down, stiff-backed and prim. As Damen urged the horses back into motion, he reached up and pressed his hand to the crown of his straw hat, stopping it from floating away in the stiff breeze. Laurent’s figure was a little slimmer than Jokaste’s, especially around the chest, the angle of his jaw a bit sharper, and he was definitely more covered, but if Damen kept him to the half-blurred background in the corner of his eye, focused only on the splash of color, he could almost imagine it was Jokaste sitting next to him. 

But they had only gone a few strata when Laurent turned and blessed Damen with a beatific smile, of the kind Jokaste only gave when one of her games had been well executed, and said, “Lord husband, could those be royal guards? Shall we ask them for assistance?”

Definitely not that different. Damen elbowed Laurent and said, “I am no more a lord than you are a lady, wife,” but he followed the arc of Laurent’s pointing finger through the hills until he saw three small smudges that might just be figures on horseback.

It was fifteen minutes until the guards pulled up alongside the carriage, which was unusual enough. In Damen’s experience, guards ignored on-road carriages unless they had reason to suspect it was harboring a criminal, or importing illegally. Damen pulled the horses to a stop. 

“What brings you to this part of Patras?” said one guard. “Excuse my saying so, but you and your lady seem in rough shape.” He touched his hand to his temple, and Damen mimicked him, wincing as the tips of his fingers brushed across the violent bruise from the hilt of Aniketos’ sword. 

“Um,” Damen said, as Laurent pressed up against Damen’s side. 

The second guard said, “Show us your papers.”

To Damen’s—and the guards’—utter shock, Laurent burst into tears. He was possessed with sobs that wracked his slender body. Damen awkwardly wrapped an arm around Laurent’s shoulders and wondered it he should risk murmuring anything soothing. 

The guards exchanged a look Damen knew all too well; they were regretting making this stop at all, and wondering how they could escape. 

Laurent managed to compose himself into a shuddering, sniffling kind of calm, and forced himself to regale their story, with frequent stops to wipe his eyes and nose on his ratty sleeves, look imploringly up at Damen, and accept the guards’ condolences. It was a good story, and Damen tried to pay attention in case anyone asked him about it later. 

An ill-informed couple attempting a scenic if circuitous honeymoon route to visit the husband’s family in Akielos, rain making the routes treacherous, straying from the path. They had ended up in Vask, captured by clanswomen who had attempted to seduce Damen until they had managed to escape. Their papers, their food, their clothes, their money: everything had been lost. 

Laurent’s Patran was halting and punctuated by frantic, gasping sobs. He forgot easy vocabulary, like the words for _trail_ , _clan_ , and _lost_ , and looked at the guards with trusting eyes and soft lips. They were all too happy to oblige. 

More guards were called. People were consulted, and Damen and Laurent were given a small room in Lord Hákon’s country manor. Hákon himself was away on a hunt, they were assured, but he was certain to agree to help two weary travelers, and would be informed of their presence on his return. 

Laurent surveyed their room with a proprietary air. His eyes were still tear-reddened, one hand balanced on his hip, the other dangling from thin fingers an embroidered handkerchief a guard had given him. 

“Is this a good enough honeymoon suite, dear?” Damen asked. 

“It’s adequate.” Laurent was looking at the mattress with an unjustified level of distaste for someone who had been sleeping on dirt for a week. The sheets dipped under his weight as he sat down on the end of the bed. He lifted one leg up to balance his heel on the wooden frame, and his dress slid down to reveal a pale, well-formed leg. “Well? How shall we occupy ourselves before we are called to eat?”

“Now it is you who tease unfairly,” Damen said. 

Laurent laughed and let his foot fall off the frame. “I thought you would be more willing if I was dressed like a woman.”

Damen considered it. Laurent dressed up like a Veretian noblewoman, face painted up like he had seen on the few aristocrats who had ventured to the Marlas negotiations: pale skin made paler with blanc, cheeks highlighted with rouge smeared from lips to eye that would eventually end up as red smudges on Damen’s inner thighs. The sharp lines of his clavicle highlighting his complete lack of a décolletage. Damen had heard it could take three-quarters of an hour for a Veretian woman to dress; how much of a production would it be to tear their clothes off? There was the gown, of course, with all of those laces and ruffles to combat, then the fichu—that would be easy, just pulling it off like a ribbon around a present. Then a petticoat, and possibly more laces, a hoop, a corset, a second petticoat, stockings and garters, a finally a chemise. But Damen had to admit there was an appeal in the prospect of thorough debauchment. Laurent would start out as pretty and as composed as a painting, and end up spread on Damen’s bed, hair astray, layers discarded, makeup and seed staining the sheets. 

Damen wasn’t sure how thick each layer of clothing was, but if he was careful, he was sure he could reduce Laurent into a squirming, mewling mess, begging for Damen to touch him before Damen was anywhere near undressing him. 

Or there was the prospect of an Akielon lady’s dress. It would have to be a peplos, Damen decided, like the women in Aegina wore. It gave the illusion of multiple layers by folding the cloth, which Laurent would approve of, but it was draped and open on the left side—that would be for Damen. Crude humor called provincial Aeginian women _phainomerídes_ , those who show their thighs. Damen would be able to run his hand up from Laurent’s ankle to his cock without anything hindering him, push away the fine cloth to leave everything bare. He’d work his hand up to Laurent’s flat chest and feel his hardening nipples, stimulated by Damen’s touch and the tight fabric of the apodesmos breast-band, mouthing them through the thin cloth, until they stood out as pink roses against the spit-translucent fabric. 

“I am willing no matter how you are dressed,” Damen said, honestly. “It is you who has the choice.”

Laurent flushed. “It’s no fun to tease someone so earnest,” he said, as if Damen couldn’t feel the embarrassed heat radiating out from his skin. He smoothed his hands over his skirt, the very picture of feminine modesty, and suddenly Damen longed for the confident, bitchy Laurent in a tattered linen undershirt and dirty breeches. 

“How do you,” Damen waved his hand in abstract shapes, “do that? Switch your personalities on and off?” He didn’t ask, _How do I know that the Laurent that talks to me is the real Laurent?_

Laurent shrugged. It was a very unfeminine gesture, though Damen had seen women shrug before. Nevertheless, Laurent somehow managed to move his shoulders back in a way that emphasized broad muscle. “It’s very easy to act stupider than one really is.” His voice lilted back up several octaves and softened to hide the factitious tone. “I understand how it might be troublesome for you, sweetheart.” Then he cursed, drew up the hem of his skirt, and pulled a dagger from his garter. 

Damen took an involuntary reflexive step back. How long had Laurent had that? 

Laurent laughed at him, then tossed his straw hat onto the bedding, revealing his blond hair, sticking up in places where the rim of the hat had rubbed it. He twisted a few locks of hair into his fist, then began sawing at it, cutting of hunks of hair and leaving wispy tufts. Damen lunged forward and tried to wrench the dagger out of Laurent’s hands, but Laurent shrugged him off. 

“No self-respecting Veretian woman would have hair like mine,” Laurent said, as spun gold floated down onto the bedspread. “We’ll say the clanswomen cut it off in the attack. It can’t be stylized.” 

“I’m divorcing you,” Damen said, as Laurent stood up and tried to smooth down what was left of his hair. 

Laurent was looking down at the cut hair. “Do you think we could stuff this into the pillows?” He picked a pillow up and inspected it. “Fuck, Patras had to copy bedroom decor from Akielos as well? If they were going to secede from the clans, they should have considered adopting our creature comforts. These are like rocks.” He began brushing his hair into the pillowcase, the dagger disappearing back up his sleeve. 

There was a knock at the door. 

Laurent had stuffed his hat back on his head and swept past before Damen could even react, shoving the pillow into his hands and hissing, “Finish that.” He opened the door to reveal two slaves, man and woman, in the hall. Despite their stance—standing, upright—and the richness of their clothes, they nevertheless managed to project an aura of complete subservience. 

“Mistress Lauryn, Master Damen,” said the girl. Damen could hear the years of recitation and voice lessons in every soft word. “Lord Hákon has returned from the hunt. He sends his sympathies regarding your plight, and begs you make use of the resources of this manor during your stay.” She bowed her head, making clear just what manor resources referred to. 

Damen winced. He doubled his hair-sweeping speed, not wanting to see the look on either of their faces when Laurent told them exactly what he thought of slavery,

“What’re your names?” Laurent asked. 

“I am called Ása, if it pleases you,” said the girl. “And this is Steinn.” 

Steinn dipped his head in acknowledgement. While Ása wore the collar of a fully fledged slave that Damen had so recently discarded, Steinn still wore the golden training ribbon around his neck. 

“Well, Miss Ása,” Laurent said. “We don’t have slaves in Vere, so tell me if I am asking too much. Is there a bath we can go to?” 

“Of course, my lady. If you would just follow me.” 

Damen tossed the pillow back onto the bed, caught up to Laurent and whispered, “Why did you go through all that trouble if you were just going to put the damn hat back on?” 

“Shamed Veretian countrywoman mimesis,” Laurent whispered back. “Now shut up and follow my lead.”

“When haven’t I followed you?” Damen said, more to make himself feel better with a token protest than any real plans to disobey.

It was a strange thing, being lead by slaves. Whenever Damen had visited another castle, he either knew the way himself or was highly ranked enough to merit an escort from the lord or lady themselves, or at least their guards. The slaves seemed slightly more comfortable with it then him, but that wasn’t saying much. The boy, Steinn, seemed to be straddling the line between a desire to get there faster and paying service to his training; he ended up in an odd, crab-like walk alongside Damen. Ása trailed behind Laurent like a slave would do with any highborn lady, but whispered suggested directions like, “My lady, if this slave may be so bold, it may please you to go right.”

They reached the baths eventually. Patran design had always been confusing; after disavowing Vask, they had sought to build their own culture, and took inspiration from its two closest neighbors. Akielos lent itself towards stark white marble, beautiful in its simplicity, and able to be admired from both near and far. Vere attempted to make up for its architecture by throwing everything at their buildings and seeing what would stick. The most complicated bit of Akielon buildings was either the entasis, a curve in a column that made it appear straight to the viewer, or the strong foundations that gaves structures stability through centuries. Vere’s best palaces probably couldn’t survive an earthquake, and thought trope-l’oeil, gilding, stucco arabesques, and fancy gardens made up for it. 

Patras seemed to take the worst from each. The combination of Akielon symmetry, marble, and artistic nudity with Veretian ornamentation, murals, and decadence was in full display in the guest baths. The most obvious tribute to Vask was that the erotic frescos were monopolized by dominant females, with the men in various poses of submission. The few exceptions carried a taint of fetishzation. There was also a heavy emphasis on procreation, with pregnant women and multiple birthing scenes. 

Damen suddenly felt very homesick. 

Laurent bent down and swept his thin fingers through the water of the heated pool, tracing lines in the bubble-foamed surface. “Miss Ása,” he said, though he had swept a clear circle of water in the foam and appeared to be studying his reflection in it, “Would it be too gauche for me to clean my dress here?”

Ása did a very good job of hiding her shock at the suggestion; Steinn, not so much. 

“Oh no, mistress,” Ása said. “If you give it to Steinn, he will have it cleaned for you.” 

It was Laurent’s turn to act shocked. “But then I would have to be,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “undressed.” His eyes darted to Damen, to Steinn, then back to Ása. “In front of another I am not wed to.” He stood up, and pressed himself to Damen’s arm, looking imploringly up at him. 

“Uh, right,” Damen said, and toned his voice down to a more confidential murmur that nevertheless echoed off the walls of the bath, “My wife is Veretian, you see. They have an unusual thing about nudity. If you could perhaps provide her with a new dress?” 

“Oh no, that would be too much trouble,” Laurent said, putting a hand to his mouth. “Damen, dearest, if you could just give it to them to wash while I take a quick dip?” 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Damen managed, very suddenly aware of a week’s worth of crime coating every inch of his body and the ache in his back from still healing. “Anything you wish.” 

Steinn bowed, and left the room. Ása hesitated a bit longer to reassure herself that neither Laurent nor Damen would require her services, then followed him out. 

“Are you proud of yourself?” Damen asked, as Laurent worked on untying the bodice laces Damen had worked so meticulously over mere hours earlier. 

“A bit,” Laurent said. “Turn around, will you?” 

“What?” 

“I’m sure you heard me,” Laurent said. “Turn around and close your eyes.” 

Damen gave a histrionic sigh, but did as he was asked. “ _But why_?” 

“Because I actually plan on taking a bath? You sound like a child,” Laurent said, and tossed his dress over Damen’s head. There were a few splashes as Damen fought to disentangle himself from the fabric, and then Laurent continued, “I recommend having them clean your clothes as well, honey. You look disgusting. And do knock before you come back in.” 

Damen followed Laurent’s suggestions and handed off both their clothes to the slaves. When he went back, Laurent was neck deep into the steaming water, the bubbles up to his ears. 

“I told you to knock,” Laurent said. His breath knocked suds off their foam pillars and sent them twirling through the air. 

“What secrets are there among husband and wife?” Damen said, sinking into the water. He could feel each muscle relaxing in the therapeutic heat. 

Laurent shifted in the water, his knees poking out as he drew them up to his chest. “Generally speaking, plenty.” 

Damen decided to start at his fingernails and work his way around. As he began to scrub the dirt out from under the nail, he revealed long-forgotten flecks of gold paint that Laurent had brushed on so long ago. He held his hand up to show Laurent, but he had turned around, his back to Damen as he worked soap into what was left of his hair. Damen dropped his hand and began to pick off the polish as well. 

It took Damen the better part of an hour to feel even remotely clean. When he finally brought himself to get out, their clothes—now clean—were laying in a basket at the door. Ása or Steinn must have snuck them in without either of them noticing, a true testament to their superb training. It was good that Laurent had not once let more than his shoulders come up above the water, and had never turned to face Damen and the door Damen had his back to either, though he had to wonder what the slave had thought when they had seen a supposedly married couple sitting on opposite ends of a bath, not facing nor talking to each other. 

Laurent refused to get out until Damen once again turned his back and closed his eyes. Reluctantly, Damen complied. It wasn’t as if it was anything Damen hadn’t seen before. Veretian sensibilities were designed to be aggravating. 

Ása was waiting outside the door, head bowed. But when she saw Laurent, freshly laced, she exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Lauryn! What happened to your hair?” 

Laurent touched a hand to his hair, still damp, and cast his eyes downward. “It is a tool of shame employed by the clanswomen,” he whispered. “To sheer off a woman’s hair.” 

“Begging the mistress’s permission,” Ása said, “Steinn will take the master to the banquet while I fix Mistress Lauryn’s hair?” 

“I would greatly appreciate it, Miss Ása,” Laurent said. 

Ása went to fetch Steinn, who led Damen through the manor into the banquet hall. The feast was already in full bloom, raucous soldiers calling for more beer, harassed servants running back and forth with extra servings, and slaves stationed periodically, playing the kithara. 

“They have not yet started the main course,” Steinn said. He had to yell to be heard above the noise as he led Damen to the end of the table and showed him to an empty spot on the bench, surrounded by what must have been high-ranking townspeople. 

Damen had expected to be introduced to the lord of the manor, but Steinn disappeared, and no one else made mention of it. When he looked along the table to the head chair, the lord, a blond-haired, muscled man surrounded by hunting dogs and quaffing ale, was talking with a refined, heavy-shouldered man who sat at his right. No one inclined to come down to Damen’s section of the table and welcome him. 

It took Laurent fifteen minutes to join Damen. He was sporting a much more even cut, though it was barely any more feminine than what he had before he took a dagger to it. He lifted his skirt to step over the bench, revealing a stockinged calf and the beginnings of a shapely thigh, much to the appreciation of the other guests. 

He stole a cherry from Damen’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “Miss me?”

“Of course.” 

From the front of the room, the lord was beginning to call for attention. Behind him, six servants were balancing a roasted boar on a golden plate. 

“Settle down, settle down,” the lord yelled. “I say a toast is in order, to our distinguished guest from Bazal, who first spotted this mighty beast that we feast on tonight!”

Laurent went absolutely still as the cheers roared around him. Damen looked over, and took in his pale face, the whiteness of his knuckles wrapped around the stem of his goblet, and the rapid breathing that was so shallow Damen couldn’t see his chest moving. 

“Though you are the one who felled it, Hákon,” the guest said, smooth as silk. 

“Too right!” the lord boasted. “Then let us cut into it together, my friend.”

Damen reached out to put a hand on Laurent’s shoulder, but as soon as his fingers brushed against the fabric of his dress, Laurent flinched back, and looked at Damen with wide, uncomprehending eyes. 

“Lauryn?” Damen murmured, and then softer, “Laurent? What’s wrong?” 

“It was just a precaution,” Laurent said, so quietly Damen was forced to read his lips. “Just a precaution. I didn’t think this would happen.” Laurent’s hand clamped around Damen’s wrist. “We have to leave,” he hissed. He had stopped staring at Damen, which was a relief, but now had an uncanny focus on his plate. His grip tightened, his nails digging trenches into Damen’s skin. “I have to leave. _I have to leave right now_.” But he wasn’t moving, and Damen realized his rigidity had transformed into soft trembles that shook through his body. Water sloshed over the sides of Laurent’s cup and washed over his hand, making small pools on the dark wood of the table. 

The last time he had seen this, it had been a faked reaction to the idea of running away from a slaver in Akielos. 

Damen stood up and stepped away from the bench, then took Laurent’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Laurent almost collapsed against Damen’s side, knees buckling, so Damen bent down, wrapped an arm under Laurent’s knees, and picked him up. 

There were a few wolf-whistles and bawdy remarks, but the banquet was progressing well into raucousness as the boar meat made its way down the table, and the few who took notice of their sudden departure soon forgot as the slaves brought round another pitcher of wine. 

Laurent was walking again, albeit unsteadily, before they got to their room, and his shaking had all but subsided when he collapsed face first onto the bed. 

After a silent minute where it was clear that Laurent was neither going to move nor explain anything, Damen shut the door and sat down at the end of the bed, the mattress dipping under him. Carefully, he eased off Laurent’s shoes, noting the tab on the heel and the elastic sides, which explained how effortlessly he had slipped them off back with the bounty hunters. Then he pushed up Laurent’s dress up until it was bunched just above the crook of his knee, ignored the stiffening of Laurent’s muscles, hooked his forefinger into the band of his stockings, and peeled those off as well. 

Damen sank to the floor and leaned his back against the bed. 

He must have dozed off at some point, because when he awoke to a sharp knock at the door, the sounds of revelry from the banquet hall had died down to nothing. Laurent had fallen asleep too, his breathing soft but even, one arm draped off the side of the bed. 

The insistent knock came again, and Damen eased himself achingly to his feet and went to answer it. 

He cracked open the door, the bulk of his body preventing any prying eyes getting a look at the sleeping Lady Lauryn, and looked down with bewilderment at the lord of the manor’s boar-spotting guest. 

“I am sorry to interrupt you at this late hour,” said the man. He had dark hair and a beard, though both were going to the grey, and the general bagginess of a man who had recently lost a lot of weight. “I hope I didn’t wake you…?” 

Damen stifled a yawn. “No, no. Can I help you with anything?” The mattress creaked as Laurent shifted in his sleep. 

“I was hoping I could speak to your lady wife,” he said. “She caught my eye at the dinner, and she looks remarkably like an old acquaintance of mine.” 

“Um,” said Damen. “Well, let me go ask, uh, her. Excuse me.” He closed the door and turned around. 

Laurent was sitting bolt upright, face ashen. There would have been no sign that he had just been sound asleep except for a strain around his eyes. “Let him in.” 

“Do you know him?” Damen asked, wondering how to refuse an honored guest of the manor when they were supposed to be humble peasants thankful for unexpected hospitality. “Is it safe?” 

“No,” Laurent said, “But let him in anyway.” 

The man smiled effusively when he walked in, and opened his arms wide. Laurent submitted to a hug with a blank face. Damen pulled a chair around in front of the bed so the man could sit down. 

“Laurent,” the man said, giving Damen a nod of thanks and apparently not noticing the shock in his face. “I thought I recognized you beneath that atrocious getup. It has been a long time.”

“It has,” Laurent agreed. He didn't look as if he cared that this man knew his name. It didn’t look as if he had ever cared about anything. “I’ve grown up a lot since you last saw me.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“And how is your brother?”

“Well, as I am sure you know. There is a baby on the way.”

The man’s smile widened. “Perhaps I will grant them a visit, once the babe is older.” 

“Try it, and I swear I will see your head roll.”

“After all that work done to see that it didn’t?” 

Laurent gave a wry smile. “A childish decision.”

“And the one who made it is no longer a child.” The man sighed wistfully. “I will admit it gave this old heart quite a scare to see you, Laurent. Would it be too much to believe you missed me?” 

“I thought you were in Bazal, brownnosing poor King Torgeir and hoping the stimulation was enough that he’d no longer need his slave-boys and would let you fuck them instead,” Laurent said. “Had I known you had so much as looked at the grass outside that fortress, I would have risked the wolves.” 

“You were such a sweet boy too,” the man said, as if to himself. “Then why did you come here, Laurent? Shall I take a guess? How much has changed since I could read you like those picture books you loved so much?”

“Enough that you seem to have lost all subtlety. No games? No little lessons to teach me?”

“Don’t be so hasty, we’ve barely reunited.”

They stared at each other. Damen, for his part, was supremely uncomfortable. He had given the man the room’s only chair, and was now leaning awkwardly against the door. He had missed his chance to slip away, and now he didn’t feel like he could leave Laurent alone. Their conversation, although cryptic, suggested a shared past, but while the man seemed pleasantly surprised to see Laurent, Laurent himself was on the verge of aggression. 

Damen had to specify _on the verge_ because while his actual words were incendiary, his tone was dull and flat. Gone was the fiery outrage of the forest, or the droll comments exchanged with the fugitive hunters. Everything about him signaled defeat, his mouth forming bitchy remarks without any input from his mind. The only time Damen had seen the slightest spark of life had been when the man mentioned seeing Laurent’s future nephew, and that had gone out in an instant. 

Plus, something was nagging at Damen. This man seemed familiar, like Damen definitely should be recognizing him, but in a different context. It was like meeting a vestal virgin in a brothel, or when he had first seen Laurent the abolitionist radical in the woods instead of Lavrentios the scarred slave. 

Laurent broke first, which was monumental in itself. “My companion and I are headed to Akielos.” 

The man gave a sharp, barking laugh. “How long have you been in the woods? Or do you have an army stowed under your skirt? You’re as charming as ever, Laurent, but it’ll take more than keeping your thighs open and slick to cross the Akielon border right now.” 

Laurent went very, very pale, and Damen stepped forward, his hands curled into fists. He wasn’t going to let anyone talk to Laurent like that again. 

“Hired muscle?” the man asked. “Or something else?” 

“Enlighten me,” Laurent said. “What’s happening in Akielos?” 

“They’ve misplaced their prince,” the man said. His eyes were still on Damen. “I’m sure you understand. But the whole border is crawling with their ill-dressed soldiers. Nothing is crossing that border without a thorough search.”

“So?” Damen broke in. “We have nothing to hide.” Inwardly, he winced. Nikandros was going to eviscerate him, and he didn’t want to imagine what Jokaste and Kastor would do to his disemboweled corpse afterwards. 

“Really?” the man said. “I wonder if the Prince Regent will agree?”

“What?” Damen said at the same moment Laurent cut in with an “Already?”

The man looked at Damen like he was an interesting new bug stuck to the bottom of his shoe before answering Laurent. “Did you think they would wait? For what?”

“It was supposed to be a coup d’état,” Laurent said. “Right now, there’s nothing to coup against.” 

“Laurent, what is he talking about?” Damen asked. “What are you talking about?” 

“Shut up,” Laurent said, not taking his eyes off the man. “I’ll explain later.” 

“Laurent—” 

“ _Not now_ ,” Laurent hissed. 

“It seems to me that it would be easier to implement a gentle fade in the succession. King dying, prince missing, presumed dead,” he trailed off. “Though I have no vested interest in what passes for politics in Akielos. What good would it do me?”

“Yes, what good does it do you?” Laurent asked. “Send us off to the border to get shot by some convenient bandits; it's much simpler. Two birds, one sack of gold.”

“Oh, Laurent,” the man laughed. “I never once wanted _you_ dead. I’m just here to help, for old time’s sake.” 

Damen’s mind raced. A Prince Regent was only implemented if the reigning king was deemed too sick to rule, and that had to be decided by a majority of the kyroi. His father had been ill, yes, but it had just been the weakness of old age, nothing more life threatening than the passing of time. Damen hadn't even been gone that long; surely they wouldn’t have put Kastor on the throne unless it was an emergency. And what had Laurent meant about a coup?

Laurent stayed quiet, and the man leaned forward. “I hope you realize the position you are in right now. A…shall we say a foreign national traveling undocumented in politically turbulent times? What ever would your brother do if this came to light?” 

“Was it my youthful inexperience that made your machinations seem so subtle, or have you truly lost your touch?” Laurent spat. “Why don’t you just say, ‘Laurent, this is a threat? Give me what I demand?’” 

“And what I have lost in subterfuge, you have gained in acid,” the man said. “What terrible things happened to the boy who bent over himself to please me? You miss our games? Then let me tell you how I checkmate: I’ll corroborate your story with Hákon, and my dear friend, the old fool, will replenish your stock and provide you and your, ahem, husband, safe travel to the neutral Acquitart. It’s not Akielos, of course, but I’m sure even the most determined honeymooners will change their plans in light of the circumstances.” 

“And you want?” Laurent asked. 

“It’s been refreshing to hear my native language spoken,” the man said, “And an old man like me is allowed a little bit of a crush on a beautiful lady like yourself. I wish to accompany you to Acquitart.” 

“You want my permission to cross the border,” Laurent said flatly. 

“It’s a death sentence if I enter into Vere, and it has always been assumed that applied to Acquitart as well. But if I am given permission by a _dear friend_ of the prince? Well, who will protest?” 

“You can’t do anything from Acquitart.” 

“So what’s the harm?” 

“I see the harm,” Laurent said. “I just don’t see the purpose.” 

“If the harm and the purpose aren’t the same, then what do you possibly have to be worried about, my dear boy?” 

“Get out,” Laurent said. “Let me think.”

To Damen’s surprise, the man acquiesced. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Laurent seemed to collapse in on himself. He rested his elbows on his knees and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

Damen couldn't have cared less; he had waited long enough. He grabbed Laurent’s shoulders and jerked his head up. “What did he mean about a Prince Regent? What did you mean about a coup?”

“Damen,” Laurent said. His blue eyes were wide and, if Damen hadn’t known better, he would have said frightened. “Please.”

Damen’s grip tightened. This was bigger than an individual, no matter how fond of him Damen was becoming. This was about his country; the country he had abandoned to chase after one criminal, and to no purpose. “ _What did he mean_?” 

Laurent tried to push Damen away. When he couldn’t, something in him seemed to die. He deflated in Damen’s hands and let his eyes fall shut. Slowly, he began to speak. “Prince Damianos’ bastard brother has been planning a coup for years.” 

Damen saw red. He had always thought it an idiom, but momentarily, he was blind and deaf, struck dumb by the apoplectic rage. When he came to, Laurent’s face was pale with fear and pain, his eyes wide. Damen could see his racing pulse in his neck. 

It's not as if he hadn’t heard the rumors before. The people loved to project their own feelings onto their royals, whether it be Veretian incest or a perceived jealousy between bastard and true-born. The coup rumors were so prevalent that even Nikandros had heard them. It should be no shock that a Veretian would parrot them as well; but there was something intensely aggravating about someone who has no stake in the manor to repeat rumors as if they were fact. 

Damen took a deep breath, and let Laurent go. “Those rumors have been swirling around for years, Laurent. They’re not true.” 

“They’re not rumors either,” Laurent said. He spoke carefully, each word falling deliberately into place, more carefully than he had even spoken to Aniketos and Linos. “I…I suppose you could say I am an old acquaintance of Prince Laurent and King Auguste. Last year, they both received a messenger bearing Kastor’s sigil, telling them that King Theomedes was on his deathbed, and requesting their help securing the ascension.” 

“You’re lying,” Damen said. 

“I’m not.” 

“Then the messenger was. It was a fake sigil. Someone is besmirching Kastor’s name.” 

Laurent ignored this. “Maybe you know this, but. King Theomedes sent Prince Damianos to Delfeur to deal with—well, to deal with me. It wasn't a well-kept secret. Most, if not all, of the nobles figured it out. And nobles don’t care what they say around slaves. Apparently, he has not been seen since. I don’t know what Kastor’s original plan was, but he must have seized the opportunity.” Quieter, he added, “He must have had help, the fool. I didn’t think he had enough brains in him to figure out how, without the kyroi rallying against him.” 

“Would you shut the _fuck up_ for once in your damn life?” Damen growled. 

“It doesn’t matter if you want to believe me or not,” Laurent continued. “We’d have heard by now if King Theomedes was dead, but Kastor had him declared unfit to rule. I would think that’d take longer than the, what, week that Prince Damianos has been missing? But maybe not. Kastor declared himself Prince Regent in the interim. Those are the objective facts. Do with them what you will.” 

Damen turned around and slammed his fist into the wall. He could feel his knuckles crack as they hit the stone, and it was less satisfying than knocking the smug look off of Laurent’s face. A face that, as he turned back around, wasn’t really that smug. 

“Damen,” Laurent said. “Calm down. Please.” 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Damen said. His knuckles were raw with pain, but it served to distract from the chaos in his head. 

Laurent’s face relaxed by steady increments. It was a very deliberate move, as he moved each muscle in his face individually. His breath slowed, too slow to be natural. But he couldn’t change the subconscious symptoms of fear: the paleness of his face, the still visible pulse, or the jerkiness of his movements has he drew his hand away from his lap and rested it on the foot of the bed, opening up his posture. 

“Damen,” he said, voice low. He stood, walked over to Damen. Every movement was spasmodic, as if he had to think about each muscle involved. He set his hands on Damen’s hips, then fell to his knees. Moved his hands in over Damen’s crotch, hooked fingers in the waistband of his pants. Softly drew his nails across the skin beneath. Moved his face in, breath hot against Damen's growing bulge. 

“Laurent,” Damen said. “What are you doing?” His heart was still racing, but its pattern had changed. 

“This would be easier if you sat,” Laurent said, and used a hooked finger to tug Damen’s pants down, inch by inch. 

Damen’s mouth went dry. “Get on the bed,” he rasped. 

Laurent complied without a word, returning to his seat on the end of the bed and then falling backwards, so his head lay in the middle of the mattress, wrinkling the blankets, and his feet still hung off the end, just above where Damen had placed his removed shoes. 

Damen stood between Laurent’s spread legs and twisted his fingers in the laces of his bodice, then jerked him back upright. Laurent gave a choking gasp as the bodice tightened around his waist, but Damen didn’t care. He was already down on one knee, beginning the arduous process of removing the laces from each eyelet, one by one. It was almost exactly how Damen had imagined it earlier. As the bodice fell open, Laurent took a deep breath, and a bit of color returned to his cheeks. Damen pulled off the fichu easily, the knot above the breast unraveling with the lightest tug. 

Laurent presented his crossed wrists in front of him just as Damen was about to let the shawl fall to the floor. 

“Is this what you want?” Damen asked. 

Laurent didn’t say anything, just stared at Damen with those bright blue eyes. Damen wrapped the fichu around Laurent’s wrists and tightened the knot until his skin went white beneath it. The patch of skin he brushed was hot and flushed. 

He was wearing a poor woman’s dress, so there was only three layers to get through. The partlet was pulled over Laurent’s head, and then the gown, which was also unlaced until it fell behind Laurent. The smock was cheap enough that Damen took his hands to the neckline and ripped the fabric down the front. 

There were small, circular bruises on Laurent’s upper arms from where Damen had been holding him. His torso was patterned in red lines from the tight bodice, tracing angry maps across his skin. Damen’s eyes followed their path down to Laurent’s abdomen. 

The wound from the broken glass bottle was worse than Damen remembered. While it was no longer bleeding, it was leaking pus and a watery discharge, the skin around it was red and swollen, with streaks of red radiating out from it, which Damen first mistook as more marks from the restrictive clothing. When Damen looked down to the reverse side of the torn smock, it was stained pink. 

“Laurent,” Damen said. “Are you—” 

“Ignore it,” Laurent said, and looped his tied wrists around Damen’s neck. 

“I…” Damen tried. “I should go. Laurent, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

Laurent tugged Damen closer. “Go here?” He arched his back, so Damen’s protesting lips just graced across a pink nipple. “Or here?” And he leaned back, falling once again against the mattress, and pulling Damen with him. He unhooked his arms and pushed Damen’s head down with one hand, until his nose was brushing against the trail of light hair that ambled down to Laurent’s cock. 

“You’re not even aroused,” Damen said, trying to stand up, but Laurent’s hand was was still laced in his hair. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Laurent said. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” 

Damen reached up and fumbled for Laurent’s tied wrists. When he found them, he grabbed them in one hand and forced them above Laurent’s head. Laurent’s back arched off the mattress to relieve the strain on his shoulders. He looked like the natural prequel to debauchment: pink lips begging to be kissed into red, the pale hollow of his neck sending Damen a private invitation, the slight spread of his thighs and what hung between them. 

Damen forced himself to stand up. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked. 

Laurent twisted his wrists out of the tie. “What’s wrong _with you_?” He picked up a pillow as he sat up and flung it Damen. His cheeks were mottled red-white, embarrassed. “Get out! Get out, out, out!” 

Damen retreated. Once in the safety of the hallway, he sank to the ground, cradling his bruised and bleeding knuckles, and tried to rebuild his world into something that made sense. It took a long time to even cool his rage and lust confused mind into something like thoughts, and even then the prevailing one was: _my father is dying_. 

Because it didn’t matter what nefarious reasons Laurent tried to apply to Kastor’s assumption of the regency. If he could trust the truth of that—and he felt he could, it made sense. Only a select few had known Theomedes was sick, so why else would rumors swell now, to the point of neighboring kingdoms increasing border patrol in deference to the rise of a new power? His father, his mentor, his king…he was dying, and Damen was not there.

Damen almost jumped up and ran to the stables right then, but a sound from the room snapped him back to reality. The creaking of bedsprings, wood scraping against stone, doorknob twisting, and bedsprings again. Laurent had propped the one chair in the room against the door. 

He didn’t know where the stables were. If he did find them, they’d be no way to get through a manor of this size unseen, and if he managed that, there’d surely be grooms and the like on the lookout. If he could get a horse, there would be guards outside, looking for horse thieves. And even if he managed all of that and got to Ios, he’d be the rogue prince who stole a horse from an unassuming border lord. 

He could just walk out. No one would stop him. But walking—or waiting for a kind-hearted traveler going in the right direction—all the way to the border would take more time than that man’s suggestion of a stop in Acquitart. 

The identity of the man kept nagging at Damen. A lot of old, pale-skinned Veretians looked the same, but this one seemed much too familiar. It couldn't have been too recent. Damen tried to go through the last decade of Veretian ambassadors. There had been Marchant, Lafaille, Galopin, and then that one just after Marlas, whose name Damen couldn't remember. And before the battle, there was de Guignes, who was about the same age as the man, and probably deserved to be kicked out of Vere, considering the terrible job he did vying for peace, but the identity just didn’t click in Damen’s mind. 

Damen closed his eyes. There was a long night ahead, and worrying about his father wouldn’t help him get through it. There was still fire burning under his skin from the confrontation with Laurent. Focusing on this took his mind off his troubles. 

At Marlas…there was the then-uncrowned King Auguste, of course, he was right out for a multitude of reasons. And the little Prince Laurent, who Damen mostly remembered as a blur of blond hair and acidic hate. Damen had seen him for maybe all of an hour total, pushing through soldiers too shocked to hold him back after Damen cut his brother down, waving a white flag, clutching Auguste’s hand at the sickbed, and crying as a recovered Auguste sent him away from the battlefield. 

None of the soldiers would be greying now, Damen thought. Perhaps one of the generals, but the man didn’t carry himself like a soldier. He could be one of the few councilmen who got off their padded chairs in Arles to help their injured king negotiate the fate of their country, but their faces were blurred in Damen’s mind by time and derision. 

And then there was the royal uncle. As Regent, he had begun the peace talks while Auguste was recovering. He had been followed everywhere by a young boy, just on the verge of puberty, who Damen assumed was his son. It had been Kastor who pointed out the similarities between how the Regent fed the boy sweetmeats and how the councillors fed their older pets fruit, which led Damen to realize there was only one cot in the Regent’s tent and that every other highly ranked Veretian had brought a pet. 

He had been so disgusted that he had begged his father's permission to halt negotiations until Auguste recovered. The Regent—demoted back to royal uncle upon Auguste’s awakening—had left Marlas with Prince Laurent. And then a few years later Akielos received the news that he had been exiled. Kastor had wanted to offer him sanctuary in Ios, but Damen convinced Theomedes to refuse. The last they heard, he had slunk into the royal court in Bazal. 

Bazal, Patras. 

It was hours before Damen heard Laurent pull away the chair from the inside of the door. Slowly, stiff muscles aching, Damen pushed himself upright, ignoring the protest from his raw knuckles. Dread formed a pit in his stomach and grew with every step, to the point where Damen thought he might collapse from the weight of it as his hand hit the door. He hoped this wouldn’t be too awkward. 

Laurent had pulled the chair up under the one window. He was still wearing the torn smock, but had wrapped a thin blanket around his shoulders like a shawl. He blinked owlishly at Damen as he walked in, tilted his head, and said, perfectly calm, “I assumed you would have gone to find Miss Ása to work off that erection, or have you traded a soft dick in for a soft skull? You can turn back and go find her, if you wish.” 

“I’m sorry,” Damen said. He had considered this. With Laurent, it was best to preempt with what he had planned on manipulating you into saying; it threw him off. “I was angry, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And I should have realized you would never offer me sex like that.” Though it was still a mystery to Damen why he had offered it at all. 

Laurent reacted like a fighting tomcat getting sprayed with water. Damen could just about see his mind flinching back from the shock of it. He pressed his advantage while he still had it. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you about Kastor. You need a better reason if you want to convince me to go to Acquitart. Otherwise, I’m leaving for Akielos tomorrow, with or without you.” 

There was a children’s game, though it was almost too simple to be called a game, that Damen had played with Kastor. It went a little like this: Kastor would smooth his hands across his face, forehead to chin and back again. While his hand was covering one part, he would change his expression beneath it. Happy to angry to shocked to sad and back again, so it looked like his feelings were being washed away like charcol on a slate. Laurent’s expression had the same combination of subtle and abrupt. It hardened imperceptibly into something akin to resignation. 

“Alright,” Laurent said, after a terse minute. 

Damen said, wondering if he’d ever see Laurent again, “I think I’ve figured out who you are.” 

Laurent rested his chin on his hand. “How so?” His blanket-shawl fell down over his shoulders. 

“I recognized that man, you see. It was gnawing at me for awhile, but I finally got it.” Laurent looked concerned, and Damen grew more confident that he was right. “He’s the exiled Veretian prince, you know, the late King Aleron’s brother. And the way he talked to you…” Damen paused. This was the point he wasn’t sure about: ‘weird’ didn’t seem to cover it, but ‘proprietary’ lacked the strange, heated undertones Damen had sensed. “Well, and then I remembered how you said you were at Marlas too, and it all just came together.” 

“Don’t keep me in suspense.” 

“You’re the boy,” Damen said. “The Prince’s underage pet.” He remembered Laurent’s diatribe after he rescued Damen from the mud: _I know the boy you speak of. You don’t. You know nothing of his circumstances_ and he felt a deep sense of shame welling in his stomach, threatening to overflow and spill out of his mouth in embarrassed apology. 

Laurent was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Damen allowed himself a little pride at his deduction. “You would have been eleven or twelve then, right? And who lets children that young on a battlefield unless they serve a purpose.” Damen screwed up his mouth with the effort of recollection. “You also have the same coloring. Laurent?” 

Outside, a wolf howled, its lonely cry echoing into the night. Laurent was still looking at him, aghast, and Damen feared he had sent Laurent into a shock-induced paralysis until he saw Laurent’s pink lips move to whisper, “Thirteen.” 

“What?” 

Louder, Laurent said, “I was thirteen at Marlas. Apologies, I was just momentarily astounded at how quickly my disguise fell apart.” 

Damen smiled. “I’m a little offended that none of the names you gave me were real.” 

Laurent smirked. “How’s that? Have you accounted for how he knew I was calling myself ‘Laurent’ if that’s not my real name?” 

That stopped Damen up. His first thought that maybe Laurent was his real name, and it was just a bizarre coincidence, and then the next thought hit him and he felt sick. 

“I see you’ve figured something out,” Laurent said, studying Damen’s face. 

Slowly, picking every word carefully, Damen said, “Why was he exiled?” 

“I believe the official explanation was crimes against the crown, though the exact nature of those crimes were never disclosed.” 

That momentarily got Damen out of his reverie. “Treason? And he wasn’t executed?” His father would never pardon a traitor, even if it was a member of the royal family. It was unthinkable. 

Laurent gave him a wry smile. “I believe it sets a dangerous precedent to execute a royal. Gets the common people thinking.” 

“Well,” Damen said. “There is a custom in Akielos that’s like, if someone’s beloved partner dies suddenly, and their survivor can’t cope with the loss, they take a slave who looks like them and has been trained in their mannerisms, and they are used to wean them off the one who died. And it’s frowned upon, but some people take that idea and apply it to someone unattainable, but alive. Someone who’s already married, or rejected them. Maybe even a relative, or someone too young. And if the slave is already replacing someone else, it’s not too much of a stretch to call them by a different name as well.” 

If it was possible, Laurent looked even sicker than Damen felt. He thought of Laurent trembling at the banquet hall just because he had seen the man and cursed himself. There was no place for them to retreat to in their room.

Laurent swallowed. “How prescient. I hadn’t,” he paused, let himself breathe, “I hadn’t thought of it like that before, but I was a stupid child. But yes, I suppose…I suppose you could say that I was,” he choked on the word, “his pet. Good work.” He composed himself. “And since you know all that, there should be no harm in telling you that there is one other reason he was not executed. When King Auguste found out what he had done, it took his whole personal guard restraining him to keep him from decapitating him right then and there. It was the young prince Laurent who begged his brother to spare the life of his beloved uncle. After all, he had essentially raised Laurent while Auguste was arguing treaty with Akielos.” He turned to look out the window at the gibbous moon so Damen couldn’t see his face. 

It was too detailed. Damen ventured, “Is this common knowledge in Vere?” 

Laurent turned to look at Damen, solemn eyes ringed with blue-black. When was the last time he had seen Laurent sleep? Had he ever? Not in the forest, not on the road, barely here in the Patron manor. “I was there,” he said. “In his bed.” He took in Damen’s face, and continued, “Why so shocked? You were the one who guessed I was his pet; did you presume I sat around all day looking pretty and eating delicacies? Even pets have to earn their keep.” He wasn’t looking at Damen now, but across time, six years into his own past. “I think Auguste wanted to surprise Prince Laurent. He arrived at Chastillon very early, early enough that it could have been called night. He found Laurent’s chambers first, but the prince wasn’t there. So he decided to enlist his uncle’s help in the surprise somehow, but there, in his uncle’s rooms, was the stark evidence of his crime.” 

“And you,” Damen breathed. 

“And me,” Laurent agreed. “You don’t know terror until you’re woken up after a nice fuck with your wild-eyed king waving a sword at you.” Damen assumed this was Laurent’s attempt at a jest, but it came out stale and sad. 

Damen tried to follow suit. “You’d be surprised at how often that's happened to me.” Especially when his father was younger, and words like spry or sprightly could be applied. Damen would be enjoying a relaxing morning with a slave when Theomedes would take it upon himself to awake his trueborn son for sparring. 

Laurent leveled his cool gaze at Damen. “I’d believe it,” he said, and turned back to the window. “In a way, Prince Laurent and I grew up together, but I can’t say we were friends. He was entitled and graceless. The kind of boy who thought books could teach him all he needed to know, and he would be smarter than anyone for it. Resentful that his brother abandoned him to save Vere, tried to hide his anxiety but ended up taking it out on people who had no means to defend themselves.” He brushed his knuckles across his brow. “Children, even royal children, don’t understand things like treason or betrayal. They just want whoever pays them attention.” 

“And that’s what his uncle did.” Damen tapped his fingers on his knee; that folk song was stuck in his head, the one that started _Laurent, Laurent, how abhorrent_. “Have you forgiven him? Prince Laurent, I mean?”

Laurent’s eyebrows briefly took on a life on their own and shot upwards. “Forgiven…Laurent?” he repeated, like there was actually any doubt about what Damen had said. “For what?” For the first time since they had met, Laurent seemed genuinely bewildered. 

“Well,” Damen said, drawing out the vowel as he thought, “It sounds like he was a right ass to you, for one. And more importantly, I guess, for trying to pardon your abuser, though not specifically for that. And less pertinently to you, endangering Vere by suffering a traitor to live.”

“My abuser?” Laurent said. “Damen, I told you I was a pet. I agreed to it. I practically begged him to fuck me.” 

Damen held back a shudder. “Well, so? You were a child. When I was a child, I almost choked to death trying to figure out how many fig pastries I could fit in my mouth.” 

“How many was that?”

“Eighteen.” Damen pulled up his shirt and pointed to the gnarled scar on his abdomen. It was twisted and sinuous, like a spiderweb clenched in an invisible fist. “And when I was thirteen, I agreed to spar my older brother with real swords. My choice. It was dumb, but it was my choice.”

Laurent’s fingers graced across the scar. “Your brother did that?” 

“He did.” Damen tugged his shirt down. “Point being, we shouldn't let children make decisions.” 

Laurent laughed. “Not you, at least.”

They fell into an easy silence, broken only when Damen said, “You have a brother too, right? Tell me about him.”

“Yes. An older brother. Augustine,” Laurent said.

“Laurent and Augustine,” Damen said. “Tell me, do you have a sister named Hennike or another brother called Aleron?”

“Don’t be stupid. Those would be my parent’s names.”

“I’m just a little hurt you don’t even trust me with your brother’s real name,” Damen teased. 

“In my parent’s defense, they had decided on Augustine long before King Auguste’s birth was announced,” Laurent said. “What’s your brother’s name?”

Damen floundered. “Pollux?” he said eventually. 

Laurent threw his head back with genuine laughter. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Have I given the impression that I don’t know Akielon myth? Castor and Pollux, the Dioscuri?” The thick Akielon words rolling off Laurent’s tongue, sounding strangely harsh between the Veretian particles and conjunctions, was unspeakably attractive. “Somehow your close family consisting of off-brand derivatives of the royal family is worse than my plagiarization.”

“It’s a common name,” Damen said, a tad too defensively. 

“As Damen is, I’m sure.” Laurent was still laughing, but he collected himself enough to continue, “When I was little, I used to call him _Gugusse_ , until my father heard. Does that add some verisimilitude, or did you call Pollux _Po-Po_?”

Damen laughed despite himself. “It would have been Poo-Poo. Why did your father stop you?”

“Clever little Damen,” Laurent said. “My father was very traditional. Augustine was the firstborn son. It wouldn’t be right if a nickname that meant _clown_ caught on. But my mother, she always said it like,” Laurent snapped his fingers, like he was searching for a word, and said in rapid fire Veretian, heavy with an accent Damen could not place, “Ah, Laurent, Laurent and Augustine, look at the messes you have made. Pick up all your, your, your _gugusses_ , put them away.” The accent dropped. “I just liked it because it sounded like his name.”

__

__

“Thingamajigs,” Damen supplied. 

“What?”

“That’s our word for when you don’t know a word.”

“Thingamajigs,” Laurent repeated, sounding out each syllable. “That’s stupid.” 

“Unlike _gugusse_ ,” Damen said. 

“He was the best thing I ever had,” Laurent said, turning back to look out of the window. “We don’t…we don’t talk much, anymore. He didn’t know about what I did as a child until. Until it was over, and well, he didn’t approve.” 

“He blamed you for it?” 

“No,” Laurent said. “Not Augustine. That’s not. He didn’t—doesn’t—treat people like that. It was me, I think. I couldn’t face him, after he found out. I’ve been avoiding him, honestly. I only visit him when I have to, and he’s not legally allowed to visit me.”

Damen raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Laurent said. “The best I can say is that he is a citizen of Vere, and I live in the Acquitart principality.” 

“And he can’t just cross the border?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Laurent said. “But do you see now why I am so loathe to go with my—to accept that man’s help?”

“Laurent,” Damen said. “You’re holding all the cards in this game. He is the one who approached you. Just refuse him; let’s go to Akielos. You had your own plan to get there before he came along, I’m sure of it.”

Laurent kneaded his fingers into his temples, warding off a headache. “I would, but he’s right. I wasn't thinking. It really is too dangerous to attempt a border crossing, especially from the Patras-Acquitart border. We’d really have to ride west, past Ravenel, before we had a chance.” 

“You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten, and you’re injured,” Damen said. “You need to recover from that. You’ve latched onto an idea and you can’t let go of it because your head's too full of fuzz to fit anything else in it. I want you to climb in that bed and close your eyes while I go find something for you to eat. If you’re still awake when I get back, you can eat. If not, you’ll have breakfast waiting for you.” Maybe he could find a doctor as well. 

“I’m fine,” Laurent snapped. “How am I supposed to convince you when your head is too far up your royalist ass to hear anything I have to say? Is it just me you’re ignoring? I’m sure Lord Hákon, among others, will at least corroborate parts of the story. Maybe a guard will have figured out the real reason behind the patrols, they're generally more attuned. But I have decisive proof in Acquitart, if only you would trust me to get you that far.” His face was red. Angry. 

“Why would I listen to you when you’re in a mood like this?” Damen snapped back. “Why would I trust you, when you haven’t told me the truth even once?”

“Like you’ve been any more honest,” Laurent said. He was shaking. 

Damen stood up and was at Laurent’s side in an instant. He reached out, hesitated when Laurent flinched back, then slowly pressed the back of his hand to Laurent’s forehead. 

“You have a fever,” Damen said. 

“Don’t you dare touch me.” Laurent didn’t flinch away from Damen’s touch this time, but stared up at him with pure hate. 

Damen had once had a natural philosophy tutor who had taught him about the human body. Not much of the finer anatomical details had stayed with him, but he could still remember the lesson about eyes. 

Eyes are the best indicator of emotion. Pupils grow and shrink with mood; dilating with pleasure and contracting with anger. It was easier to see in people with light-colored eyes, a rarity in Akielos, so they had called in a slave from Damen’s personal harem. He remembered as the slave’s pupils had darkened as she looked from the tutor to Damen, then blown wide when Damen brushed aside the gauze around her waist and reached between her legs. The tutor had explained the changing colors was something of an optical illusion, if Damen recalled correctly; with wider pupils, less of the iris’ color was exposed, making it look darker. Conversely, an angry person’s eyes would appear lighter as their pupils contracted. 

Laurent’s eyes were as light as the translucent blue-white marking the barely-there edge of a cloud. Damen had seen snakes with more welcoming looks. But they were bright with fever, and unfocused with pain. 

Damem took his hand from Laurent’s forehead. “Lie down, at least.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and imagined his father’s face, weathered from sun and stress, beard more grey than brown, eyes managing to hold onto kindness despite so many years of ruling a war-torn kingdom. “I won’t leave yet, Laurent. We have time to make a plan.” 

Laurent reached out and grabbed Damen’s forearm. His hands were freezing. “Don’t tell anyone I’m ill,” he said. “Don’t get a physician.” 

Damen pulled Laurent to his feet and helped him into the bed. Laurent kept his free hand clutching the torn smock, forcing it closed, while the blanket slid off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

Damen pulled the bedcovers down and let Laurent slip inside. He tucked the blankets around Laurent and adjusted the pillows so he could lay back comfortably, before spreading the abandoned blanket on the stone floor, filching a pillow from the chaise lounge, and blowing out the candle lit lamps. Damen lay down on his makeshift bed, shivering a little in the cold. 

“Damen?” Laurent said. 

“What?” Damen was already falling asleep; despite the adverse conditions, it was much better fare than he had had in a long time. 

There was a long pause, made longer by the room’s dark silence. 

“Good night,” Laurent said. 

“G’night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending note: Big thanks to scripttraumasurvivors@tumblr and scripttorture@tumblr for helping me with my inane research questions, and another great big thanks to everyone who pointed out typos in the last chapter. Sorry about that—really, really hoping there are less this chapter, and no plot pertinent ones.


End file.
